


All or Nothing

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John, two singles who have failed to find love, have agreed to take the most radical step possible: they will marry a total stranger. The first time they meet is at their wedding ceremony. Will they have the courage to say "I do?"</p><p>UPDATE: though this story is one that I loved writing, I cannot see myself completing the epilogue any time soon, if ever. After the show's finale, I don't feel connected to these characters anymore. My apologies to anyone who I've disappointed by not finishing the story. Just know that in my world, they're happy and in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this isn't a joke. Thank you to Alyssa [victorianhusbands1895](http://victorianhusbands1895.tumblr.com/) for commissioning me and helping me form this full fledged ridiculous fic. I'm having a ball writing it. 
> 
> Also thanks to Sid [johnthreecontinents](http://johnthreecontinents.tumblr.com/) and [shipping-by-numbers](http://shipping-by-numbers.tumblr.com/) for betaing these first two chapters! With any luck, I'll have chapter three up in a week or so, but no promises.

With a slow breath in, John smoothes a hand over the front of his tuxedo jacket. His hand is steady, which is unnerving, because his hand is never steady. He lets his gaze roam over his suited figure in the floor-length mirror and cringes. Metal cane and a tuxedo - it’s not exactly debonair. He can’t imagine for the life of him someone finding him attractive like this.

“God, what am I doing?” John whispers, shaking his head. His hand is wrapped so tightly around his cane that his knuckles have gone white. This is ridiculous. He’s finally gone off his rocker, truly; he’s lost it.

The door to his room creaks and he startles, spinning around to see Harry sliding in and shutting the door quickly behind her.

“We’ve got about five minutes before the cameramen come to follow you about,” she says, leaning back against the door. She looks John up and down with a raised brow. “You okay?”

John nods and takes another slow breath in. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Yeah, I’m - good. Great. Excited.”

“A man who’s good, great, and excited does not look like you do,” Harry says, stepping away from the wall. She walks up to John and he squares his shoulders, lifting his chin adamantly. In her heels she’s a few inches taller than him and he has to look up at her. “ _You_ look like you’ve just seen a man rise from ash,” she continues. She tilts her head to the side. “Are you sure, John?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper as though someone is listening in on them. John supposes there very well could be.

“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s just a bit of pre-show jitters. You work in theatre, you get it.”

“Yeah, well, stage marriages are a bit different than actual, _legal_ marriages,” Harry insists, grabbing John’s shoulders firmly. He winces and tries to dip his left shoulder out of her grasp. “This is _real_ Johnny; this isn’t just - you know, it’s not your fifteen minutes and then you shake hands and part ways. You’re doing - _vows,_  and going on a honeymoon. _Living_ together!”

“I need this, Harry,” John whispers. He swallows hard. “I can’t - if I don’t do this now, I’m going to be alone forever. You know me. I’m an all or nothing person. Diving in head first, it’s just... easier, for me.”

Harry drops her arms and sighs, trying to hold back a smile. “You’re such a Watson.” It makes John feel a bit better, knowing she can’t deny the fact either. “But, god, John - you’re getting _married_ ,” she resumes, relentless.

John clenches his jaw and tries to pretend that his heart isn’t pounding out of his chest. “All or nothing, Harry,” he repeats, shifting on his cane.

“I know, I know,” she huffs, “but for god’s sake, John - you don’t even _know_ the bloke.”

* * *

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dimmock groans, rubbing his eyes and leaning against his desktop. “Listen, I know the producers want him on the show, but have you read his application? He’s a mess, he’s all over the place - we’re not going to be able to find a match for him. There’s no way in hell.”

“At this point I want him on just because I feel bad for him,” Mike says, leaning back in his chair. He shrugs. “The producers want him on for ratings, but forget the ratings; the poor bloke has _never_ had a relationship. Kind of feels like this is a sad, last ditch attempt, doesn’t it?”

“His application reads like there’s a reason he hasn’t dated anyone,” Dimmock sighs. He drops his hands from his face and frowns at his computer. “We can’t just have him on because we feel sorry for him. We’ve been doing this for five years and we’ve never matched someone up just for the hell of it. Christ. ‘A moderate, distant hope for a monogamous relationship,’ is _actually_ written into his application, Mike.”

“So he’s a bit weird,” Mike says, “that doesn’t mean we can’t find someone who fits his profile. I’m not working on this show just because it’s more fun than owning a psych practice; I want to help people; sad, weird, lonely people like him. I want to help him.”

“So do I!” Dimmock insists. He turns his chair to look sternly at Mike. “I do care - you know I do, but we have more than 22,000 applicants, and the pool of gay and bisexual men is less than 500. We’ve got weird, sad, lonely straight blokes out the back door, but I just can’t think of a single weird, sad, lonely _gay_ bloke who would fit with this guy.”

“We just have to go through them again. I mean, god, look at that - ‘I don’t do halves; when I invest myself in someone or something, it is in full or not at all.’ It reads like something out of Pride and Prejudice, but the man clearly means that when he cares, he _really_ cares. He’s an all or nothing guy!” Mike insists.

Dimmock’s brows furrow. “An all-or-nothing guy,” he mutters, rubbing his jaw absently.

Mike nods and grins. “Maybe he had feelings for someone, fell in love, even, but they didn’t love him back. Maybe the poor bloke has been heartbroken for almost a decade.”

Dimmock shakes his head slowly and shuts his eyes. “An all or nothing guy,” he repeats. “I think… I’ve seen that on another application, actually.”

Mike’s expression brightens right away. “Really?”

Dimmock squeezes his eyes shut a bit tighter, trying to pick through the memorable applications in his mind. “I can’t think of the name,” he says. “It was… Doctor, something. He was a doctor.”

Mike grins and turns his chair back around to face his computer. “There can’t be more than fifty or so doctors in a group of 500,” he says, clicking in his browser an inordinate amount of times. “Just filter men, gay and bisexual, doctor - I’ll read them off, tell me if one rings a bell. Doctor Harland Leonard, Doctor Cayden Ramos, Doctor James Walsh - ”

“Who’s that one?” Dimmock interrupts, standing to look over Mike’s shoulder.

“Err, James Walsh, age 35, gay, lives in Kent, doctor of rheumatology, plays bocci ball on weekends, self-identifies as a hopeless romantic,” Mike summarises, scrolling through the application.

Dimmock makes a noncommittal noise. “Not him.”

He steps away again and leans against the desk while Mike continues. “Alright, Doctor Ormond Sacker, Doctor Killian Beverly, Doctor John Watson, Doctor August Neil.”

“Go back to John Watson,” Dimmock says. “It’s something about the J and W.”

“Doctor John Watson, age 37, bisexual, lives in London, GP and former army surgeon.”

“Mr. Holmes likes military men,” Dimmock recalls, smirking.

“Oh, Jordan look, down here at the bottom,” Mike exclaims, tapping his computer screen. “‘My previous relationships haven’t lasted long enough to discuss marriage, so I think I should try jumping in head first. I’m an all or nothing kind of guy.’”

“That’s the one,” Dimmock agrees, leaning over the back of Mike’s chair. “He’s a doctor - I’d say that meets Mr. Holmes’s requirement for someone ‘moderately intelligent’. Can you bring his application up next to Doctor Watson’s?”

Mike pulls it up, practically beaming. “Look at that. They both listed ‘patient and understanding’ under their wants for a partner. Neither of them think dating is worth their time.”

“Potential religious and sexual compatibility,” Dimmock mutters, scanning the applications. He tsks quietly. “Doctor Watson has listed himself as preferring women.”

“Still open to both,” Mike insists. “I think there’s a chance here.”

Dimmock bites his lip for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Alright, you call Doctor Watson and I’ll call Sherlock Holmes. I’m already meeting with another potential candidate on Monday, try to aim for Wednesday or Thursday if you can manage it.”

“You’ve got it, boss,” Mike says, jotting down a note on his desktop planner. “I have a good feeling about these two.”

“We shouldn’t be matching before we’ve interviewed them. We don’t know enough about their lifestyles,” Dimmock sighs.

“They want Holmes on the show,” Mike reminds him. He turns his chair so he can look at Dimmock. “We have to make this stick.”

Dimmock bites his lip again. “Holmes and Watson,” he mumbles.

“Holmes and Watson,” Mike agrees.

* * *

 

“Have you chased off the vultures?” Sherlock asks, straightening his tie.

“Yes, but don’t expect them to be gone long,” Mycroft says, shutting the door quietly. “It’s a reality television show, Sherlock, they’re going to be following you for the next six weeks.”

“I have my ways,” Sherlock says cryptically, looking at him through the mirror.

“So do they,” Mycroft insists, glaring. “You are giving up all rights to privacy for something unbelievably trivial.”

“Trivial?” Sherlock scoffs. “I’m getting married, Mycroft.”

“To a complete stranger,” Mycroft throws back. He tilts his head condescendingly. “Is this a cry for help, Sherlock? Have you started using again, somehow without my knowledge?”

“Oh, for the love of god,” Sherlock huffs, “I’m sober. Two years. Nothing has changed.”

“Nothing has changed?” Mycroft repeats, incredulous. “You applied to a reality television program - presumably voluntarily - a program on which a group of moderately qualified scientists - ”

“Veritable experts,” Sherlock interrupts.

“ _-_  and a self-described ‘ _sex_ -ologist’ play matchmaker and marry complete strangers based on flawed methodology and projected ratings. The entire process is so unbelievably illogical that the only explanation I can conjure up is that you must have relapsed and had a fault in judgement, or a loss of conscious thought, which has led us here.”

“Nothing led ‘us’ anywhere,” Sherlock spits, fixing his cuffs. “I am making my own decisions, as adults do, and you are following me around, like a small hopeless dog.”

“You’ve always been fond of dogs,” Mycroft notes.

“There’s always one sour apple in the bushel.”

“Now I’m a fruit?”

Sherlock smirks and Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Honestly Sherlock, do grow up. God help the man marrying you today.”

“I do think he has more to worry about than bad innuendo."

“Such as the former drug habit and the tendency to chase murderers for fun?” Mycroft suggests.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and finally turns to face Mycroft. “Do you actually want to be here, or have you come purely to reprimand me for my every step and choice in life?”

Mycroft raises his brows and shrugs. “Can I not do both?”

“The producers invited you. I did not. I will tolerate you for the brief period of time you are here, and then you will leave me alone,” Sherlock says.

“Will I?” Mycroft asks. Sherlock glares.

The door opens and they both quickly put on their simple masks, smiling blandly at the cameramen who enter the room. “It’s time for the wedding, Mr. Holmes,” one of them says. He looks over to Mycroft. “You can make your way to the hall and take a seat on the left side.”

Mycroft nods complacently and moves past them to the open door. “My premature congratulations,” he says, giving Sherlock a patronising look. “I do hope the end of this whole affair won't involve an attorney, if only for his sake.” He raises a snarky brow and leaves, shutting the door silently behind him.

* * *

 

“Ah, yeah, I’m nervous,” John laughs. “It’s not just like going on a first date, it’s the rest of our lives. Well, hopefully,” he adds, laughing again.

The cameraman shoots him a thumbs up and John drops the stupid smile, tilting his chin to his chest and taking a slow breath. This would be so much easier if they would stop asking him so many questions. He knows he signed on for it, but it would’ve been nice to be allowed more time to adjust to everything - couldn’t they have matched him up with someone and just let them be?

“You have two minutes until it’s time to enter the wedding hall, Doctor Watson.”

“Okay,” John sighs, keeping his eyes shut. He stands there in silence, rocking on his heels, trying to focus on the positive. It’s surprisingly hard to do; all he can think is that the experts had to have made some kind of mistake. They can’t have actually found a match for him, let alone a perfect one. He hasn’t dated since before his tour, and he came back from Afghanistan with a gimp leg, a see-through shoulder, and a piss poor attitude. Not even to mention that he’s been matched up with a bloke. He hasn’t been with another man since -  

“One minute, Doctor Watson,” a cameraman says.

John’s eyes snap open and he takes a deep breath. “Right.”

“You’re both going to enter the hall at the same time,” another reminds him. “He’ll be on the opposite end. Do your best to remember what you can for the interviews afterwards.”

“There’ll be two strips of tape in front of the altar,” the first continues. “Yours is green, his is red. Do your best to stand with the arches of your feet on your tape. You can move in front of it, but not behind. Ready?”

John exhales sharply. “Ready,” he says, forcing a smile.

“Ten,” the cameraman begins, “nine, eight, seven - ready at the doors - four, three, two - ” He gestures for John to step forward and John starts moving at the same time the doors to the hall open. He focuses on his feet as he walks, begging fate to keep him upright and from tripping over his cane. He only catches a glimpse of the man walking toward him from the other side of the room. When he finally stops at the altar and looks up, his breath catches in his throat and he slowly starts to grin.

The man standing in front of him is absolutely stunning. All curly hair and cheekbones, full lips and a tall and slender frame. His eyes, some kind of otherworldly verdigris colour, look John up and down, and a soft pink blush rises on those high cheekbones.

The officiant clears her throat softly and John snaps out of his mild trance. “John Watson,” she begins, “meet Sherlock Holmes.”

John chuckles and holds his hand out genially. “Hello,” he greets.

“Hello,” Sherlock says, taking his hand. His voice is low and soft, and his hand almost entirely covers John’s.

After a few quiet, awkward seconds, John lets his hand gently fall from Sherlock’s grasp. He doesn’t know what to do with it - he has his cane and there’s no way to formally put his hand in his pocket, so he just lets his arm hang by his side. He glances over at Harry and his rugby blokes, all of them grinning like idiots. Harry shoots him a thumbs-up and an exaggerated wink and he rolls his eyes. He takes a brief look at Sherlock’s family section, if it could even be called as much. John’s is plenty sparse as well, but there’s only two people on Sherlock’s side. Two men, one holding an umbrella and watching him sternly, and the other watching Sherlock with something like concern. It’s… sad, really. John glances between the stern umbrella man and Sherlock.

“Friends of yours?” he asks, raising a brow.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder and snorts quietly. “Hardly,” he says. John laughs and Sherlock smiles shyly.

The officiant clears her throat and resumes her dialogue. “We are here today because John and Sherlock have pledged to commit themselves to each other in marriage.” Sherlock raises his brows at John and John bites the inside of his lip to stop himself laughing again. “Sherlock and John, there are no obligations on earth more sweet or tender than those you are about to make. Lead with your hearts and take time to do the simple things that nurture your love. A successful marriage doesn't just happen. It takes work.”

She turns to Sherlock and smiles. “Sherlock,” she says, “John’s friends would like you to know that he is stubborn and hard to get to know, but when you make it through his walls, he’ll be more loyal to you than anyone you’ve ever known.”

John works his jaw and looks over at his little group, Harry and Bill and the rugby blokes he hasn’t seen, let alone spoken to, since before his tour. He hardly kept in contact with them, but they thought well enough of him after all this time to still say these things. Or felt pressured by the television crew to say something nice.

“John,” the officiant continues, facing him now. John drags himself out of his thoughts and listens. “Sherlock himself would like you to know that he plays the violin when he thinks and sometimes doesn’t speak for hours on end.”

“Days,” Sherlock corrects quietly.

“His brother Mycroft would like to add that, while Sherlock has had trouble with relationships in the past, he is an extremely committed person and will remain constant and devoted to you if you find yourself on his good side.”

“He would never say that,” Sherlock huffs. “I don’t appreciate the paraphrasing.”

John glances over to Sherlock’s guest section. The bloke with the umbrella stares at the ground, looking a bit sad, and John figures that must be the brother. John looks back to Sherlock and the officiant hesitates before continuing.

“Finally, his friend Greg would like to tell you to try not to punch him. He takes a bit of warming up to, but you’ll find yourself growing to love him. Do you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes - ”

“Not a very smooth segue,” Sherlock mutters.

The officiant looks at Sherlock and purses her lips. “Perhaps you can make revisions for the next couple, Mr. Holmes,” she suggests. John snorts and covers his mouth. _Jesus Christ, he’s relentless._

Sherlock looks at John and back to the officiant, then looks at the ground in submission.

“Okay,” the officiant says, nodding sharply. John drops his hand and forces himself to pay attention to her. “Do you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes to be your husband?” she repeats. “Do you promise to walk by his side forever, and to love, help, and encourage him in all he does? Do you promise to take time to talk with him, to listen to him, and to care for him? Will you share his laughter, and his tears, as his partner, lover, and best friend? Do you take Sherlock Holmes as your lawfully wedded husband, for now and forever more?”

John looks over at Sherlock, who’s gazing at John through his eyelashes, looking _bashful_ of all things. His almost-husband just criticised the officiant, yet looks like an innocent kid, just chastised by his mother. John shouldn’t be intrigued by the seemingly rude man in front of him, but he finds himself saying, “I do,” without a second thought.

The officiant smiles and turns to Sherlock. “Sherlock Holmes, do you take John Watson - ”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts. He blinks and looks at John and then back to the officiant. “Sorry, did you really want to go through all that again?”

The officiant takes a deep, slow breath. “No, that’s fine. We’ll do the rings, then, unless you think we should skip that formality too?”

Sherlock actually seems to contemplate it for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, we can do that.”

“Good,” the officiant says. She hands a wedding band to Sherlock and says, “Sherlock, as you place the ring on John's finger, repeat after me.”

Sherlock hesitates, then tenderly takes John’s left hand. John winces as his stiff shoulder moves, but smiles when Sherlock looks at him, and they wait for the officiant to begin.

“With this ring,” the officiant starts.

“With this ring,” Sherlock echoes.

“I offer you my heart and soul.”

Sherlock sighs and looks at her in disbelief. She doesn’t relent, so he looks back to John. “I… offer you my heart and soul,” he finishes quickly, blushing a darker shade of pink.

“Do you?” John asks, smirking.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but John can see a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“May its presence on your hand be a constant reminder of the commitment we made here today,” the officiant finishes.

Sherlock parts his lips and takes a slow breath. “May its presence on your hand be a constant reminder of the commitment we made here today,” he repeats, sliding the ring onto John’s finger.

“Glad we could make it through. Such a struggle, wasn’t it?” the officiant huffs.

“Oh, don’t complain, you aren’t the one marrying him,” John teases. Sherlock’s brow creases and his eyes flicker over John’s face. “It - it was a joke,” John mutters. “Can I - can we do my bit?”

The officiant smiles and hands him Sherlock’s wedding band. He takes it and fumbles for a moment, trying to figure out how to hold the ring, his cane, and Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock catches on and after a beat simply holds his hand out for John, who turns red.

The officiant continues, trying to move things along. “John, as you place the ring on Sherlock's finger, repeat after me: With this ring - ”

John takes a slow breath, then lets it out sharply. “With this ring,” he repeats.

“I offer you my heart and soul.”

He and Sherlock both smirk and he regains his composure. “I offer you my heart and soul.”

“May its presence on your hand be a constant reminder of the commitment we made here today.”

John places the ring on Sherlock’s finger. “May its presence on your hand be a constant reminder of the commitment we made here today.”

The officiant lets out a relieved, yet long-suffering sigh, and smiles at them both. “John and Sherlock, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husbands. Some people choose to kiss at this point, but it’s up to you.”

“Kiss!” Harry shouts. John jumps; he got so wrapped up in the absurdity of the ceremony that he’d forgotten she was there. He looks over to her and frowns, but looks back to Sherlock and raises his brows, a silent request for consent. Sherlock stammers something unintelligible, then takes a deep breath and nods. Smiling softly, John reaches up and uses Sherlock’s lapels to gently tug him down for a kiss. Their few guests manage to produce an unbelievable volume of noise in claps and cheers. The kiss is chaste, but Sherlock’s lips are _ridiculously_ soft and John probably lingers a tad too long. He pulls back after a moment and smiles at the utterly bewildered expression on Sherlock’s face.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” he says, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear over the noise.

Sherlock opens and shuts his mouth a few times, blinking rapidly. “Charmed,” he stammers.


	2. The Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John grins. “Something tells me you aren’t always this humble.”  
> Sherlock laughs. “Something tells you correctly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to sid [johnthreecontinents](http://johnthreecontinents.tumblr.com/) and [shipping-by-numbers](http://shipping-by-numbers.tumblr.com/) for betaing and editing!

As a G.P., John completely understands that direct eye contact can make any situation more awkward. He’s experienced it countless times, and he can’t blame anyone for wanting to avoid public humiliation. Still, it would be great if his new husband would look him in the eye, even for a moment.

“Okay, if you two would stand _almost_ back to back, angle yourselves toward me a bit and let your shoulders touch,” the photographer instructs. They shuffle awkwardly around each other and John gingerly leans against Sherlock. “Brilliant - John, you put your free hand in your pocket; Sherlock, you can fold your hands in front of you. Fantastic. Look over your shoulders at each other, now.”

John tilts his head back and gazes up at Sherlock with a soft smile, and for a second thinks Sherlock is looking back. It only takes another moment to see he’s looking just past John, his smile mild and unchanging.

The photographer doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment on it. He must be used to it. Or he just doesn’t care. “Lovely. You two look wonderful together.”

John tries not to let his smile falter. He doesn’t get it; Sherlock had seemed pleased enough during the ceremony. Was he faking it? Is he just uncomfortable now, with the intimacy of the photoshoot? John bites lightly at the inside of his lip. They had to hug each other for a full minute while the photographer snapped pictures of them in the pose. It’s a lot for one day, he supposes.

 _Hell, I ought to be a mess, too,_ John thinks, still staring up at Sherlock. Who knows; maybe it’ll drop on him any minute now and he’ll end up a quivering lump on the ground. Nonetheless, he feels calm at the moment. Maybe if he tries to project it’ll rub off on Sherlock.

“So,” he says, tilting his head a bit to try and catch Sherlock’s eye. “Ah, what do you do? As a career, I mean.”

“Erm, I’m a detective,” Sherlock murmurs. “Consulting detective.”

“Oh, wow,” John says, his brows raising. “So - you work with the police?”

Sherlock puffs up a bit and his smile almost turns into a pout before he gains his uniformity back. “They work with _me_ ,” he corrects, finally meeting John’s eyes. John smiles a bit more, but Sherlock looks off to the side again. “When they find themselves out of their depth, which is just about always, they call me in.”

“I didn’t know that was allowed,” John says.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock says, smirking a bit, “people tend to bend the rules when it comes to me.” He looks John up and down. “You’re a doctor?”

John blinks in surprise. “Ah, yeah,” he says, furrowing his brows. “How did you - ?”

“Someone slipped up, earlier,” Sherlock interrupts quickly, looking away again. “Before the ceremony. Mentioned you were a doctor.”

“Blimey,” John mutters, “they’re going to get in trouble for that.”

“Okay, face each other now,” the photographer says, gesturing for them to move close together. “Take a bit of a chance, stand as close as you feel comfortable.”

They shuffle a bit and John awkwardly tries to keep his cane hidden behind his leg.

“Um - how close - ?” Sherlock stammers.

“I’m fine with whatever makes you comfortable,” John promises, smiling warmly. Sherlock looks down at their feet and steps a bit closer, leaving about five inches of space between them.

“Alright, if you’ll just take each others’ hand - the side facing the camera, if you will.”

John holds his hand out and Sherlock takes it shyly, shuffling an inch or so closer to John.

“Lovely, lovely,” the photographer murmurs, adjusting the settings on his camera. “Gonna need you two to look into each other's’ eyes, yeah?”

Sherlock turns pink again and looks down - almost at John, but stopping his gaze at the bottom of John’s forehead. John does his best to keep his smile genuine, but it’s getting difficult. Does Sherlock not find him attractive? It’s not implausible - the cane and limp don’t exactly add to the appeal - but he’s not _that_ terrible, or at least he doesn’t think so.

John tilts his head up to catch Sherlock’s eye. “You okay?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickers down and back up again. “Yes.”

“It’s just - you won’t look at me,” John says, trying to play it off with a soft laugh. “I know it’s awkward, but you can tell me if you’re uncomfortable, yeah?”

“No, it’s…” Sherlock trails off, and John can see him nibbling at his lip. He almost looks sad, and even turns his head, to the dissatisfaction of their photographer. “I’ve been informed that my stare is… intense. I was told to avoid prolonged eye contact.”

John’s heart sinks a bit. “Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock finally, solidly looks John in the eye, and John smiles. His eyes are beautiful, his brow is strong - intense, certainly, but not overpowering. “You can look at me,” John promises, nodding. A smile slowly grows on Sherlock’s face and John just about beams.

“Oh, look at you two!” the photographer crows. “Absolutely lovely.” The flash nearly blinds them, but Sherlock doesn’t look away. Something stirs in John’s chest and he feels… grounded. _Good_.

“Alright, let’s wrap it up with a few more poses,” the photographer announces, picking up his equipment. “The bench over by the fountain will look fantastic.”

Their hands loosen but don’t entirely let go, and they start strolling after the photographer, shyly dropping their gazes. Or, at least, John does; Sherlock must be still looking at him, and John must have a funny look on his face, because he gently nudges John and asks, “Are you alright?”

John looks back up at him; his intense gaze has gone soft, and John’s heart half skips a beat. “I’m great. Fantastic,” he says, grinning.

Sherlock smiles; the whole expression lopsided and adorable. “Fantastic,” he echoes.

* * *

 

Just as John is getting settled in his seat at the head table, the sound of glasses ringing fills the room. Sherlock hasn’t even gotten to sitting yet - he’s frozen halfway to his chair, scanning their small crowd of guests with a furrowed brow. It’s already quite evident to John that Sherlock is not the kind of man who regularly attends weddings, so he clears his throat to catch his new husband’s attention. “It’s - tradition,” John explains when Sherlock looks over at him. The furrow in Sherlock’s brow deepens as he lowers himself into his seat and John smiles awkwardly. “The clinking, it’s tradition.”

“It’s tradition to make unnecessary noise?” Sherlock asks.

 _He’s actually clueless,_ John thinks, still smiling blandly. “No,” he says, “it means they want us to kiss.”

Sherlock turns pink. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to,” John promises, wetting his bottom lip nonetheless.

“No, it’s… fine,” Sherlock says. John sees his eyes dart down to John’s lips and back up and he smiles, making sure to do the same when Sherlock is paying attention. The pink on Sherlock’s cheeks turns darker and he and John both lean in, meeting for a quick, sweet kiss. Harry hoots and someone whistles, cutting the kiss short when Sherlock jumps in surprise.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling back.

“It’s fine,” John says, smiling. “You haven’t done much of this before, have you?”

“Getting married? No, I have to say I haven’t,” Sherlock says.

John rolls his eyes. “I mean this - affection, in general.”

Sherlock’s blush darkens again. “Is it that obvious?” he huffs.

“You just seem a bit jumpy,” John says. “Unless that’s just how you are - I guess I don’t know any better, do I?”

Sherlock lets out a soft laugh again. “No, you don’t,” he agrees, “but you are rather observant, aren’t you? Makes sense.”

“What?” John asks, furrowing his brow.

“You’ve never danced before,” Sherlock says, switching topics entirely.

John’s forehead smoothes out and he snorts. “Ah, no,” he agrees, laughing softly. “Not a waltz, anyway. I’m glad you knew what you were doing.”

“Well, I am the one who composed the song,” Sherlock says.

John’s brows shoot up. “You _wrote_ that?”

Sherlock smiles, looking smug. “Yes. I figured that since this was rather a situation no song had ever been written about, I ought to come up with something new.”

“But you’re a detective for a living,” John says. “Christ, you must be even better at that if you passed up music as a career.”

Sherlock’s blushes rises his on his cheeks again. “You flatter me, John.”

John grins. “Something tells me you aren’t always this humble.”

Sherlock laughs. “Something tells you correctly.”

John opens his mouth to reply right as microphone feed starts crackling over the speakers.

“Esteemed guests,” a voice announces cheerily, “the first man of the hour - Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock’s eyes go a bit wide as he glances around at their small group of guests. He clearly wasn’t expecting to be the first to give his little speech and John notices that his shoulders tense up when he notices the cameras moving toward their table.

“Um,” Sherlock murmurs, blinking rapidly. He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few note cards. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything; John can see him staring right at one of the cameras.

It doesn’t make the faintest bit of sense to John why someone so camera-shy would sign up for an extremely personal television show, but he feels bad for Sherlock nonetheless. Going out on a limb, he leans over and nudges Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock seems to blink himself back into consciousness and look down at John. “Look here instead,” John suggests, leaning back into his chair.

Sherlock blinks a few more times before taking a slow breath and nodding. He glances at the cards again and frowns. “Do you have a pen?” he asks, glancing back at John.

John purses his lips and roots around in his trouser pockets, then pats his breast pocket. “Ah, here you go,” he says, pulling a pen out. He tosses it up without thinking, immediately wincing and thinking he’s about to embarrass Sherlock in front of everyone, but Sherlock catches the pen easily and adds a quick note to his cards, tossing the pen back to John, who catches it swiftly and puts it back in his pocket.

“Much better,” Sherlock says, nodding. He clears his throat and straightens up, lifting his note cards. “John,” he reads. He glances down at John. “Glad to have something filling the blank there.” John tips his head back and laughs. “John,” Sherlock repeats, trying not to smile, “it’s… lovely you meet you.”

His gaze flickers to John again and something warm unfurls in John’s chest. John doesn’t look away from him even as Sherlock’s eyes flicker all over, like they’re jumping from one point on John’s face to the next, and down his body. The pause is longer than necessary, and the guest who isn't Sherlock's brother - was his name Greg? - clears his throat loudly and Sherlock takes a sharp breath in.

“John,” Sherlock says yet again, this time folding his hands behind his back, “I’m not going to wax poetic about things I don’t know. We are two men in a very peculiar position, and you know nothing about me. I will admit that for most of my life, marriage is not something I ever considered. However, I am quite truthful when I say that I will give everything necessary to make this strange union work between us. I don’t think I can quite explain why, but you already come off differently to me than, perhaps, anyone else has before.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off John during his whole speech, and right at the end, his eyes soften. Something about it warms John to the core, but raises goosebumps on his skin all the same. Sherlock smiles briefly before lowering himself back into his chair and folding his hands in his lap.

“And your second man of the hour, John Watson!”

John raises his brows and uses his cane to stand from his chair, pulling his own poorly-written speech from his pocket. “Not quite sure I can top that,” he jokes. Sherlock snorts and smiles. John straightens up and grips the head of his cane a bit tighter. “Well, Sherlock,” he starts properly, “I will say that I don’t think I can put it quite as… eloquently, as you did.”

“You’re too kind,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.

John laughs. “You’re different than I expected,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t know it was possible for someone to be so arrogant and self-conscious all the same, and I definitely didn’t know those were things you could find out within the first hour of knowing someone.” That blush warms Sherlock’s cheeks again and John feels accomplished, for some reason. “I feel like, if anything, this is going to be a learning experience, and I’m excited to see where it goes.”

He realises that he hasn’t even had a look at his pre-prepared speech; he got distracted by Sherlock throwing snark at him. It doesn’t matter - it pales in comparison to anything Sherlock had to say, and wouldn’t really make any sense at this point. He folds it back up and puts it in his pocket before continuing. “If you’ll have me,” he says, trying to catch Sherlock’s bashful eyes, “I’ll have you.”

As he starts to sit down, surrounded by the claps and cheers of their guests, he meets eyes with Sherlock’s only other guest - Sherlock’s brother, if he’s guessing correctly - staring right at him. Well - it’s more like glaring, really. His teeth are clearly clenched tightly together and his knuckles are white from gripping his umbrella, not clapping like everyone else (or even pretending). John wonders why he didn’t put it up at the coat check, and why this man seems to dislike him so much already, but he shakes the look off and turns back to Sherlock, who is looking at John for all the world like he’s completely confused.

“Fantastic,” the announcer says. “Congratulations, John and Sherlock. Everyone take a minute, then Sherlock and John can start making the rounds and introducing each other to friends and family.”

“Oh, god,” John sighs.

“Yes, it’s all rather exhausting,” Sherlock says. John sees him glancing over at his frowning guest.

“It’s going to be a long night,” John agrees. He glances over at Harry, who sees him and winks exaggeratedly, then takes a large drink from her champagne flute. A very long night, indeed.

* * *

 

“So, your brother,” John says, raising a brow as he hits the elevator button.

“Is always like that,” Sherlock confirms, nodding.

“Right,” John says. “Right. He’s…”

“Can’t stand him.”

“Oh, thank god,” John sighs. Sherlock laughs softly and peers into the elevator as it opens. It’s empty, so they step inside together, their camera crew crowding into one corner, and Sherlock hits their floor number. "What was with the umbrella?"

"He has an unhealthy attachment," Sherlock says, leaning against the wall.

John laughs. “He didn’t seem to like me much.”

“That’s just his face. Although I will admit I’m shocked he didn’t try to threaten you.”

“Does he usually threaten your romantic conquests?” John asks.

“Do you really consider this to be a ‘romantic conquest’?” Sherlock rebuts.

“Maybe in softer terms.” John smiles and and licks his lips. “A romantic… acquisition.” The doors open on their floor and John raises a brow at Sherlock before stepping out. “They said it was the room at the end of the hall, yeah?”

“Last one on the left,” Sherlock says, following him. “Is one of us to carry the other over the threshold?” he teases.

John laughs. “How _ever_ would we decide which of us should carry the other?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I am much taller than you.”

“You’re also practically a twig. I imagine I’m much stronger than you.”

“Not with that shoulder, I should think,” Sherlock says.

John stops walking and Sherlock nearly runs into him. “Excuse me?” he asks, turning on his heel to face Sherlock.

Sherlock stammers and takes a defensive step backwards. “Nothing,” he says, shrugging. “Nothing, I don’t - nothing.”

John narrows his eyes and purses his lips into a tight line. He can see the camera crew standing near the elevators, watching them. “We’re going to play nice for them,” he whispers, taking a slow breath, “and when we get in that room, you’re going to tell me how you know that.”

Sherlock breathes shallowly and gives a slight nod. Putting on a fake smile, John steps closer to Sherlock and leans up to gently kiss him. He pulls away after a moment and looks his bewildered new husband in the eye, then nods toward their suite and turns away to open the door. He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock as he pushes the door open, and Sherlock mechanically walks in after him. John stands in their little suite sitting room and waits as Sherlock shuts the door with a soft click.

“What the _hell_ was that?” John hisses. Sherlock’s shoulders tense and he continues to face the door. “What, did someone ‘slip up’ and tell you I was shot, too?”

“John - ”

“No, did I miss something?” John asks. “Is there some - operation, here, that I don’t know about? Because quite frankly, Sherlock, I know absolutely nothing except for what you’ve told me, and I was expecting to be accorded the same courtesy.” There’s a silent pause, and he takes a long breath in and lets it out in a frustrated huff. “Will you turn around?”

Sherlock slowly turns to face John, but keeps his eyes trained on the ground.

“Explain,” John insists, “because I promise, this is not the way you want to start a relationship.”

Nodding, Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off the floor. “Erm,” he murmurs, “I mentioned earlier that I’m a detective - ”

“Did you somehow know about me before today?” John interrupts, leaning forward on his cane. “Did you - what, research me?”

“No - no,” Sherlock says, holding a hand out defensively, “you said you wanted me to explain; will you actually let me?” He looks up hesitantly, his eyes nervous.

John clenches his jaw, stands up straight, and then nods. “Fine.”

Sherlock swallows and sighs softly. “I did not research you,” he says. “I… looked at you.”

“What?”

“Just - I looked at you.” Sherlock repeats, gesturing to John. “Observed you. You’re in an unfamiliar setting so there was less for me to go on, but it still didn’t take much.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock rubs his jaw anxiously. “It started with your leg.” John looks at him expectantly, so he goes on. “Your limp - it’s bad when you walk but when we were standing at the altar, you stopped leaning on your cane, like you forgot about it. Psychosomatic, then; likely a result of trauma. What trauma? When I moved your left arm during the ceremony you winced like it was stiff or sore. Your face and hands are tan but the tan doesn’t stretch above the wrist, so you’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. No one in their right mind wears full coverage clothing in the sun unless it’s necessary. Going by all that, I’d say you were a soldier up until recently. Wounded in action, probably a gunshot wound to the left shoulder, and invalided home as a result.”

John stares at him in shock, mouth hanging open.

Sherlock stops talking and looks back at the floor. “Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks shyly after a moment.

John blinks a few times. “Um,” he mumbles, “it - Afghanistan.”

Sherlock nods. “I thought so.”

“Christ,” John breathes, flexing his fingers around his cane. “You - you figured that all out just by looking at me?”

Sherlock nods again.

“That’s… absolutely incredible,” John says, unable to hold back a growing smile.

Sherlock furrows his brow and looks up at John again. “I’m sorry?”

“That was extraordinary,” John says, his tone basically an applause.

“Oh,” Sherlock says. John expects him to relax after that, but he doesn’t.

“Oh?”

“It’s just… that’s not what most people say,” Sherlock concedes.

John tilts his head. “What do most people say?”

“Something along the lines of ‘piss off’.”

John’s smile grows even bigger. “Well, I’m sorry, then,” he says.

“For what?”

“Nearly being one of them."

After a second, Sherlock starts grinning and finally stops drawing into himself like a kicked pup. John steps forward and puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, using it to tilt Sherlock’s head down so John can kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softly.

“As am I,” Sherlock says, tipping his head back up. John glances at his lips, then leans in and kisses him tenderly. Just the two of them - no guests, no cameras, no crew. It feels… different. Good. John hardly knows what to think; the only thing he knows about his new husband is his name and the fact that he’s some kind of genius.

And that he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing with his lips, Christ alive. John pulls back from the kiss and smiles at Sherlock. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, licking his lips, “but I am… absolutely knackered.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, still looking at John’s lips. “What?”

“I’m exhausted,” John repeats. “I mean, usually, I would…” He trails off, glancing behind him at the bedroom.

Sherlock follows his eyes, looks even more confused, and is then hit by a moment of clarity. “Oh - oh,” he stammers, clearing his throat and turning pink, “no that’s - fine, of course. Anyway, statistically speaking, the couples on this show who… consummate their marriages on the wedding night have a 100% failure rate, so it’s… for the best.”

John raises his brows, nodding slowly. “Right. Right, well. We should go to sleep, then,” he says. “After all, we have to do that brunch tomorrow, with your brother and my sister. God, that sounds awful, actually,” he mutters, frowning.

“Yes, it does,” Sherlock agrees. “However, we’ll also be flying off for the honeymoon after.”

“See, that sounds lovely,” John says, smiling again. “So we ought to get our rest, then.”

“Yes, we should.”

John glances at Sherlock’s lips again, but steps away instead. “Alright,” he says, backing away, “then I am using the loo first.”

“Oh, not if I beat you there,” Sherlock says, following him.

“You wouldn’t race a cripple,” John says, moving faster.

“John Watson,” Sherlock says, grinning, “you have a lot to learn about me.”


	3. The Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John met for the first time at their wedding and now, within 24 hours of saying "I do," are heading off on their honeymoon. Will the time alone bring the newlyweds closer together, or tear them apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cheesy descriptions are copied almost verbatim from Married at First Sight episode descriptions, in case anyone was wondering. Thanks again to Sid [johnthreecontinents](/) and to Anna [nondeducible]() for betaing and editing! i lub u guys

Waking up next to a stranger is not something Sherlock has ever done before.

Scratch that—waking up next to _anyone_ is not something Sherlock has ever done before.

It’s… undeniably strange. The bed is far warmer than the temperature he’s used to. He thinks he may have taken all the sheets, which is probably bad bed-sharing etiquette. He’s extremely aware of just how close he is to John. His husband.

Definitely strange.

He turns his head to the side and opens his eyes to look at his bedmate. John Watson. He’s interesting, to say the least. No one has ever reacted so positively to Sherlock’s deductions. It was encouraging. And his smile… Sherlock had worried that it was all for show, but he had been delightfully proven wrong. Statistically, their chances are looking good already. For now, anyway.

John sleeps on his back. It seems terribly uncomfortable, but Sherlock can’t imagine how difficult it must be to find a comfortable position between a trick leg and a healing shoulder wound. Still, he isn’t tense, nor snoring, so he must have adapted some time ago. Usual position. Weird position. It does open up an interesting opportunity; that being, Sherlock wants to know what his neck smells like and it is _right_ there.

He supposes they technically don’t know each other well enough for that, so he sits up and climbs out of bed instead. John stirs but remains sleeping and Sherlock wonders what time he should wake John up. They have to be at the brunch by half ten—which sounds terrible—and it’s only eight or so. He doesn’t know how long it takes John to get ready in the morning. Curious, he goes over and kneels by John’s bag, glances over his shoulder to make sure his new husband is still asleep, and slowly unzips it.

The first article of clothing is a jumper, dark blue and jersey knit. Sherlock thinks back to the seemingly endless period of time in which he had to stare into John’s eyes and smiles. The colour of the jumper will complement his eyes, although it might accentuate the shadows underneath them.. He sets it aside and continues to dig through John’s possessions.

He comes across an oatmeal coloured cable knit jumper and rubs the material between his middle finger and thumb.

Logically, Sherlock knows that there is no such thing as love at first sight, but he’s trying to rationalise love after a few conversations. Truly fantastic conversations.

The problem with trying to rationalise these feelings is that they are not rational in the least. He can hear his brother’s voice nagging him about getting involved too quickly, but it’s not like he’s ever _done_ this before. John was kind with him; John saw when he was uncomfortable and made an attempt to reassure him; John did not punch his lights out when Sherlock revealed that he is very good at knowing too much personal information about people.

John, however, does not know him. John is somehow dazzled by Sherlock being an invasive prick, but they have not yet lived together. The thought of John slowly growing far less impressed with Sherlock makes his heart sink into his stomach, and he puts John’s clothes back into his bag.

These feelings are not rational in the least.

The alarm on John’s bedside table goes off and Sherlock nearly falls over, quickly snapped out of his thoughts. John groans and Sherlock looks over to see him stretching, arms over his head—the left falling short of the right in range—and toes sticking out from under the mussed sheets. Sherlock’s heart pounds and he stands, unabashedly watching the endearing ritual. John’s arm comes down to fumble with the off-switch of the alarm, and he hunkers down in the bed, slowly opening his eyes. He glances over to where Sherlock is supposed to be, frowns in confusion, then catches sight of Sherlock at the end of the bed and startles.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, snuffling a bit; congested. “How long’ve you been up?”

“Just a moment,” Sherlock lies. “I was about to get a change of clothes for the shower. I didn’t know you had an alarm set.”

John hums sleepily and runs a hand through his tousled hair. “I could sleep the whole day,” he sighs, dropping his head back on the pillow. His eyes shut and Sherlock wonders if he’s actually going back to sleep.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“I think you should have the first shower,” Sherlock suggests.

“Mm,” John agrees. It takes another moment, but he slowly rises, sighing the whole way. He rolls his shoulders and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing here and there as his body shakes off the night’s cobwebs. Sherlock watches the whole time.

When John finally stands, grabbing his cane from where it leans against his bedside table, Sherlock steps away from his bag and sits on the edge of the bed. John groans as he crouches down to pick up his bag; he sets it on a chair and starts rifling through. Sherlock cranes his neck to peer in. John pulls out the blue jumper and a greenish cardigan, seemingly trying to decide between them.

“The blue,” Sherlock says. John looks over his shoulder in surprise and scrunches up his face a bit. “It’ll look nice on you,” Sherlock adds.

John smiles. “Alright.” He composes the rest of his outfit and heads to the loo. “I’d invite you to join me,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “but I’d like to take you to dinner first.”

Sherlock turns bright red and John grins, disappearing into the loo. The sheer amount of blushing Sherlock has done in the past twenty-four hours is mortifying. He rubs his cheek softly and waits for the warmth to fade away.

These feelings are not rational in the least.

* * *

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long-suffering sigh, not breaking eye contact with his brother. Mycroft tilts his head. Neither of them blink.

Harry Watson looks between the both of them. Through his peripheral vision, Sherlock can’t tell whether she’s appalled or intrigued. Might be both. Perhaps neither. Either way, he can’t look. This is a matter of pride.

“John’s been in the loo awhile,” Harry mutters, taking a sip of her drink.

“I imagine that’s Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock replies, narrowing his eyes.

“My fault?” Mycroft scoffs.

“He thinks you dislike him.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock mutters. “You’re just being stubborn.”

“Must be a family trait.”

“Can I get another mimosa?” Harry asks.

“Of course,” a waiter responds.

“In fact, John was stopped by the camera crew on his way back to the table,” Mycroft says, inclining his head toward the back of the restaurant. Sherlock doesn’t look. “Most likely something you should get used to.”

“I never said it was bothering me.”

“I can tell.”

“It’s like a game of tennis,” Harry murmurs. Mycroft smirks.

“Here comes the golden groom,” he whispers.

Sherlock feels John’s hand brush his back softly before he sits. “Anything good on the menu?” John asks.

“The fry-up looks decent,” Sherlock says, sliding a menu over to John without looking away from Mycroft.

“Uh, right,” John mutters. Sherlock can feel him staring.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and Sherlock huffs in disappointment, turning to look at John. “I’m having eggs florentine,” he says. “You seem like a Full English person.”

“And how did you deduce that?” John asks, smiling. Sherlock ducks his head to hide a lopsided grin.

“Christ, you two got on quick,” Harry says. Sherlock catches John shooting her a look and he bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. “Oh, I have this for you,” she adds, handing an envelope across the table.

John takes it and Sherlock leans close to read the front. “‘Dr. and Mr.’,” Sherlock mutters, raising an eyebrow.

John snorts and opens it, shaking his head. “‘Sherlock and John’,” he reads, holding the card away from his face. He needs reading glasses and doesn’t seem to know it, which is adorable. Sherlock looks at him and smiles. “‘Congratulations on your marriage and enjoy your honeymoon in Stockholm.’”

“Sverige?” Mycroft asks, raising his brows. “Inte ni fånga en mördare där?”

“Varför är du här?” Sherlock huffs.

“Sorry, you speak Swedish?” John asks.

Mycroft smiles, the expression like an oil slick. “You have much to learn, John.”

“I’m sure I do,” John agrees, “but I’m also quite sure it’s none of your business.”

“John,” Sherlock mutters. John looks at him and Sherlock nods at the nearby cameras.

John purses his lips and looks back at Mycroft. “Sorry,” he says, smiling bitterly.

Mycroft presses his mouth into a hard line and says nothing.

“You sure you aren’t actually filming for a soap and I just wasn’t let in on the details?” Harry asks, trying to break the tension. Sherlock raises his brows in silent agreement. He catches sight of the camera crew and one of them gestures to him.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been summoned by the vultures,” he mutters, pushing his chair out. “Do be civil, Mycroft.”

“You aren’t going to say the same to your husband?”

“No point, he isn’t an instigator,” Sherlock says, buttoning his jacket as he stands, “but I do expect that if you start it, he will respond in kind.”

“I am right here,” John reminds him.

“Yes, well, good luck,” Sherlock mumbles, heading off toward the camera crew.

Sucking his cheeks in, John looks back at Mycroft. “So,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“So,” Mycroft echoes languidly.

Harry looks between them both. “I’m pretty sure if I leave, I’ll come back to a bloodbath, but I have to go to the loo,” she says, standing. She stumbles as she steps away from the table and John tries not to feel mortified by the fact that she’s already tipsy at brunch.

“I have no idea why you imagine I dislike you already,” Mycroft says after a moment.

“Sherlock said it had something to do with your face,” John says. “You’ve also just told me you’re going to dislike me eventually, so why bother with waiting?”

“There’s always a chance to prove yourself.”

“I don’t need your approval.”

Mycroft chuckles softly. “I strongly recommend it.”

“You would, wouldn’t you,” John mutters.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Doctor.”

“Yeah, you do,” John says, smiling. “You have the same look on your face that he did about fifty times yesterday. You can do the same thing, can’t you?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mycroft asks blandly.

“You can look at me and see everything. Is it a family thing?”

“Superb genes, I’m afraid.”

John smirks. “I guess the personality isn’t on the same chromosome.”

“You think us different?” Mycroft asks, raising an eyebrow.

“He wasn’t so quick to judge.”

Mycroft laughs. “You think highly of him already,” he says. “You’re very loyal, very quickly. If we’re lucky, that won’t change with time.”

“I can’t see why it would.”

“You have much to learn, Doctor.”

“What, exactly, is your problem?” John asks, leaning over the table. “Do you not want him to be happy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft scoffs.

“What, then?”

Mycroft’s unfeeling expression falters. His eyes soften and the corners of his mouth twitch down. “I... worry about him,” he admits reluctantly. “It may not be immediately evident, but my brother has a heart too big for his chest.”

“It is,” John says. “Evident, I mean.”

“Is it?” Mycroft asks.

He looks sincere, so John nods. “Yeah, it is. I mean, he seems a bit harsh at times, but I think he means well.”

“I see,” Mycroft mutters.

“What?”

“I only hope you won’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?” John asks.

“Sherlock has his priorities set, and they are unlikely to change. I’m more than positive that he’ll attempt to integrate you into his world, but he lives an alternative lifestyle.” Mycroft sighs. “With any luck, as my brother comes to trust you, you won’t turn your back on him. The situation will be highly unfortunate for us all.” He starts to rise and Sherlock walks up to the table, setting a hand on John’s shoulder. Mycroft stands at full height and lifts his chin a bit. “I must be off,” he says to Sherlock.

“Has the queen sent a telegram?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Best of luck to you, brother mine.” He looks at John then, almost vindictively. “Enjoy your… _honeymoon_.”

“We will, thanks,” John says, crossing his arms. He stares Mycroft down as he leaves the building, then lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, you were right.”

“I usually am,” Sherlock agrees, taking his seat at the table again. “Where’s Harriet?”

“Harry,” John corrects, “and she’s in the loo. Probably hiding. She likes the limelight more than anyone else but I have a feeling she’s already… had a bit much this morning.”

Sherlock hums softly. “She’s on her third mimosa.”

“She reeked of it before the first,” John mutters sadly.

The look on his face makes Sherlock feel guilty, so he quickly changes the subject. “What was I right about?”

John’s sad expression turns resentful and Sherlock feels like ice water is dripping down his back. “Your brother,” John says, looking over at him.

“You know, that was a bad choice of topic,” Sherlock says, turning around in his chair. “Where are our meals?”

“He did threaten me,” John continues, “and he seems to think he knows who I am and how this is going to turn out.”

“Yes, he does that,” Sherlock mutters, avoiding John’s eyes by looking around the room like he’s lost.

John squints at him. “Sherlock, you’re hiding something.”

Sherlock scoffs. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You did this yesterday before you told me you had super-genius x-ray vision.”

“Bit of a fantastical exaggeration.”

“What are you hiding?” John insists.

Sherlock turns back to face the table and purses his lips. “What did he say, exactly?”

John huffs. “He questioned my loyalty and then suggested that I gain his approval.”

“Oh, yes, that makes sense.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because he thinks that just because he _technically_ has the power to exile you, he can and should use it, should he deem it necessary,” Sherlock says, gesturing absently.

John blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“Did I not mention that?” Sherlock asks, looking over at John apprehensively. John glares. “Clearly not. My brother happens to occupy a position as the majority of Britain’s government.”

“It just so happens.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“It would appear not.”

John rubs his eyes. “Well, it doesn’t give him an excuse to act like a tit.”

Sherlock furrows his brows, then looks at John in shock. “Really?”

“Of _course_ not. I could be the bloody Surgeon General and I wouldn’t be able to treat people like shit just because I wanted to.”

Sherlock absolutely beams. “Oh, John, this is going to be fun.” He starts to lean over to kiss John, but gets shy and goes for his cheek instead, his face turning pink.

John smiles at him when he pulls away. “That was cute,” he says.

Sherlock blushes even darker. “It was not.”

“It was,” John repeats. He leans forward and kisses Sherlock properly. When he pulls back, he says, “We can have breakfast at the hotel, forget this. I’m going to make sure Harry hasn’t passed out in the loo, and then we’re going to go finish packing up and go on our honeymoon.”

Sherlock smiles and nods. “Need back-up?”

“Maybe next time. Thank you,” John adds, standing and squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder as he steps away.

“Of course,” Sherlock murmurs, watching him go. His phone buzzes and he reaches into his pocket blindly, fumbling around to unlock the screen while still looking after John. When he disappears from sight, Sherlock finally looks at his phone.

_Congratulations, little brother. My best wishes to you both._

Sherlock rolls his eyes, absolutely _not_ even _remotely_ smiling as he puts his phone away.

* * *

 

Sherlock can sufficiently memorise the features of someone’s face in under a minute, and perfectly in just under three. On their wedding day he had the whole day to study John’s face, and on their flight to Sweden, he had almost two and a half hours to watch John sleep against his shoulder.

He hadn’t been expecting that. It was a relatively short flight, but the day had been long—at least in emotional terms—for John. He basically passed out the moment the wheels left the tarmac. He’d leaned his seat back and Sherlock thought it looked comfortable, so he did the same. After a moment he’d somehow ended up with John leaning against him, stuck against the arm of his seat. Sherlock had gently pushed John aside to lift the arm, then let him settle back again. He’d shyly taken John’s hand, but let it go again for fear of waking him up. And then, he’d watched.

John has a half-inch scar on his left temple, likely from a piece of shrapnel. His forehead smoothes out when he sleeps, and he looks softer. His lips are a bit chapped because he keeps licking at them and the weather is cold. He drools a bit when he sleeps. It should not be endearing. It is.

When they landed he’d snapped awake and looked around in an almost panicked state. Sherlock had carefully touched his arm to bring him back to reality, and John had frozen, before realising where he was and relaxing. They didn’t talk about it on the way to the hotel.

They’re lying in bed now and Sherlock is on his side facing John, watching him sleep again.

He knows it’s strange, just watching someone sleep, but it’s incredible. He’s never had this before, and John is someone entirely different when he’s asleep. He’s soft. He’s warm. He gravitates toward Sherlock without thought. While John is sleeping, Mycroft can’t be right.

He thinks back to his brother’s message from earlier. _Congratulations_. As though he’d ever concede so easily.

He shuts his eyes and pulls the sheets tighter around himself. It helps to pretend his brother isn’t usually right. To pretend he can’t predict how things will end as accurately as he thinks he can.

Sherlock opens his eyes again and looks at John. His hand curls into a fist under the covers.

John feels different. Everything about him, and Sherlock can’t explain it. It’s illogical. If asked to describe it, his brother would laugh at him. It’s just _something_ , something calling to him from the back of his mind like a little siren telling him _this is right_. It makes his chest feel tight, and he tries not to think about whether or not John feels the same way.

He twitches in his sleep and turns toward Sherlock, who freezes, wondering whether or not he should feign sleep.

“Sh’lock,” John murmurs, pressing his face into his pillow.

Sherlock stares at him through the dark. “Yes?” he whispers.

John falls back asleep without another word.

Sherlock feels like his heart might burst out of his chest, and he thinks he would thank John if it did.


	4. The Honeymoon: Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John, who married as strangers, are getting to know each other on their honeymoon. Will they experience blissful harmony, or will the weather not be the only frigid thing on their trip?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thank yous to sid [johnthreecontinents](http://johnthreecontinents.tumblr.com/) and anna [nondeducible](http://nondeducible.tumblr.com/) for helping me fix this chapter big time. and sorry for the extra long wait! i am garbage

Stockholm in November is very wet. It has been snowing and raining intermittently for the past few days, leaving few opportunities to go out. John hates being cooped up. He has no idea about Sherlock, but he was hoping that their honeymoon wouldn’t be a week of sitting around doing nothing.

He wants to explore the city. The view from their room looks beautiful. Snow covers the roofs and makes it look like a little Christmas village put together in someone’s sitting room. Even in the cold weather it looks warm and homey.

John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who’s settled in one of the armchairs with a book. The officiant had mentioned during the ceremony that Sherlock went through periods where he didn’t speak, but John hadn’t expected it would happen quite so quickly. It makes him wonder whether he did something wrong. They had been getting on well before they arrived in Stockholm - or at least _he_ thought they had been. The first official day of their honeymoon, however, Sherlock had sort of… pulled into himself. He almost seemed skittish - whenever John touched him or spoke to him, he startled like he’d forgotten John was even there.

“Sherlock?” John says softly.

It happens again - Sherlock jumps and looks up at John in surprise. “Yes?”

John purses his lips. He doesn’t want to be pushy, but they’re supposed to be spending time together. “Don’t you want to, I don’t know, _do_ something?” he asks. “I mean - I know it’s cold, but god, we’ve been sitting around for ages.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “What do you suggest we do?” he asks, half-shutting his book.

John hesitates. He hadn’t gotten that far in his plan. “Erm,” he mumbles, frowning. “Skiing?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smile. “There’s nowhere to ski in Stockholm unless you want to go cross-country,” he says, clearly trying to avoid sounding condescending.

John crosses his arms and stares Sherlock down, ignoring the embarrassed heat in his cheeks. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

The smile disappears from Sherlock’s face and he presses his mouth into a flat line. His eyes go a bit glossy and he’s silent, staring into nothing. John starts to worry that he might be having an absence seizure or a stroke, and moves closer to get a better look at him. Sherlock comes back to reality and takes a sharp breath in, looking back at John.

“Well, there are a number of activities - ”

“Are you okay?” John interrupts, stepping closer to him again.

Sherlock looks around the room, as though he thinks John is addressing someone else. He must eventually decide that John truly is speaking to him. “Yes,” he answers, frowning, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just dropped off into space for a few seconds,” John mumbles, leaning toward him. “It looked like an absence seizure. I think you should let me look you over.”

Sherlock almost laughs. “Thank you for your concern, John, but that’s unnecessary,” he says, barely holding back a quivering smile. “As I was saying - ”

“Sherlock, it really looked concerning,” John interrupts again. “People don’t even realise when they’re having one - ”

“I was just - thinking,” Sherlock says, giving a noncommittal gesture.

“Thinking?”

“Yes, I was thinking about the last time I came to Stockholm, and pulling up an itemised list of outdoor winter activities that were publicly advertised at the time,” Sherlock explains.

John stares at him, bewildered. “‘Pulling up’?” he asks.

“I don’t understand your confusion in this situation.”

“You sound like you’re talking about a computer, not your memory.”

“I mean, it’s essentially one and the same,” Sherlock says.

“I don’t understand.”

“I feel this is going to be a recurring theme in our relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first I said that I didn’t understand, and a few seconds later you - ”

“No,” John interrupts, “I mean that I don’t understand what you mean when you say your memory is basically a computer.”

Sherlock looks at John like he’s an idiot, which John suspects he might actually be thinking.

“It’s… quite straightforward, John,” he says. John keeps staring at him, so Sherlock sighs begrudgingly and continues. “My mind palace, it’s like a hard drive. I can pick and choose what I remember, and store things in specific locations to return to later. It’s a memory technique, I can retain any information I deem relevant or important.”

“A memory technique,” John echoes.

“Yes.”

“Mind palace?”

Sherlock blushes, but answers, “Yes,” just as assuredly.

John takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “So you’re…”

“What?” Sherlock asks, bristling.

“An actual, proper genius,” John finishes, gesturing at him. “I mean, I figured you were smart, after the whole mind reading thing - ”

“Deductive reasoning,” Sherlock interjects.

“ - but I didn’t think. Well.” He crosses his arms and shrugs. It’s ridiculous, but he feels bad for underestimating Sherlock - as if he could have actually known the capacity of his intelligence without asking. “What things do you think are important enough to remember, then?” he asks, now curious about Sherlock’s limits.

“It’s a rather broad range of things,” Sherlock says.

“Well, what do you have the most of - up there?”

Sherlock clearly and effortfully does not roll his eyes. “I don’t _know_ ,” he huffs. He gestures absently and looks around the room. He seems almost humble about it all, which John finds charming. “Chemistry,” he answers finally.

“Really?” John says, raising his brows.

“I’m a graduate chemist, it’s a _bit_ important.”

“In the field of detective work?” Sherlock looks at him like he’s an idiot again and John just nods in acceptance. “Right, course. What else?”

“Did you not want to leave the hotel?” Sherlock asks, standing suddenly and striding over to the windows.

“Why are things to do in Stockholm important enough to remember?” John asks, turning to watch him.

Sherlock gives a heavy sigh. “I don’t _know_ ,” he says again. “They must’ve just gotten mixed in there with other things.”

“What other things?” John smiles. He’s only doing it now to tease Sherlock.

“By _God,_ you’re insistent,” Sherlock groans, turning to face John again. He points to his head somewhat violently. “Chemistry, geology, anatomy; you name it, it’s in here, somewhere.”

“Astronomy?” John adds.

Sherlock’s annoyed expression falls flat and his stiff hand goes lax. “As I was saying earlier,” he continues, less harshly, “there are a number of activities in Stockholm we could partake in - ”

“Hang on,” John interrupts, grinning, “I found your weak spot, didn’t I?”

“I don’t have a weak spot. I do, however, have a few ideas - ”

“You’re bad at astronomy,” John says proudly, smiling.

“Christ alive, what does it _matter_ what I’m good or bad at?” Sherlock nearly shouts, turning red. John’s stomach turns and he realises he may have poked at an exposed nerve. “Forget it, I’ll go out on my own.” He pouts and starts off toward the door.

“Sherlock,” John says, quickly walking toward him. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock looks away, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry,” John promises. “It doesn’t matter what you know or don’t. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I just - I want to get to know you, yeah?”

Sherlock reluctantly looks at him. “Yes, well. Fine.”

“I’m sorry,” John repeats, smiling apologetically. “I am. And I do want to get out of the hotel. _With_ you.”

Sherlock’s eyes jump all over John’s face. He relaxes, his tense shoulders falling, arms unfolding. “Okay,” he concedes, nodding.

“What are your ideas?” John asks, gently squeezing his shoulder.

“Er, well,” Sherlock mumbles, straightening up, “in the Kungsträdgården there’s an ice skating rink - ”

“Actually, that sounds fantastic,” John says.

Sherlock flounders. “That was only the first on the list,” he says, sounding a bit panicked.

“And it sounds fantastic,” John repeats, squeezing Sherlock’s arm again and stepping away. “Get your coat, let’s go.”

Sherlock makes a pathetic noise in protest, but John’s already sitting down to put his shoes on. Sherlock sighs and halfheartedly retrieves his coat, which John recently found out is extremely dashing. Sherlock has all the tall, dark, and handsome features without any of the mystery or aloofness. Honestly, it’s endearing. He _tries_ to be cryptic and intense, but he really can’t manage it for more than a minute or so. It’s just too contradictory to his personality.

John slips on his coat, and watches Sherlock as he pouts and puts on his scarf and gloves. He looks around sadly when he realises he’s run out of garments, and eventually glances over to John.

“Done now?” John asks, smiling.

“I suppose,” Sherlock mumbles.

John chuckles softly and walks over to take his hand, gently pulling him toward the door. “Now, why would you suggest ice skating if you didn’t want to go?”

“It was just the first thing on the list,” Sherlock huffs.

John laughs, which coaxes a smile out of Sherlock. “Come on, we’re going to have fun,” John says. “I promise.”

* * *

 

“This is _not_ fun!” Sherlock yelps, grabbing John’s arm frantically. John continues to laugh so hard that he can’t breathe, bending over and holding the wall of the ice-rink for support.

“Oh my God,” John wheezes.

“It’s not funny, John!”

“I’m going to _cry_ ,” John gasps.

Sherlock just about gets his balance back, then shifts his weight the wrong way and slips again, desperately clinging to John and making terrified noises. John keeps laughing, doing his best to hold Sherlock upright.

He takes a few deep breaths, letting out a few stray giggles. “Oh God,” he sighs, grinning so widely that it hurts. “No wonder you didn’t want to do this.”

“I hate you,” Sherlock whimpers. He hugs John’s arm with his entire body, completely contradicting himself.

John gently pushes off the wall and drags Sherlock, whose eyes go wide with terror, with him. It’s unbelievable _just_ how uncoordinated Sherlock is on the ice. He’s like a baby deer who hasn’t gotten the hang of his legs yet. It took all of two seconds after getting on the ice for him to slip and fall on his arse.

“You know,” John ponders, slowly skating with Sherlock in tow, “I thought you’d have a bit more grace.”

“Bugger off,” Sherlock mutters gruffly.

“Best be nice to the person keeping you off your arse,” John says placidly, gliding them both along a bit further.

Sherlock pouts and hugs John’s arm a bit tighter. “How are you doing that _and_ holding me up?”

“I don’t let the ice know that I fear it.”

“Very funny.”

John grins and pats Sherlock’s arm. “You just - I don’t know, you just have to go about it the right way.”

“Which _is_?” Sherlock asks impatiently. Someone whizzes by them and he loses his footing, yelping and falling to his knees.

John purses his lips to stop smiling and pointedly does not make a comment about him deserving it because of his attitude.

“Here,” he says, moving around to stand in front of Sherlock. He holds out his hands and Sherlock shyly takes them, letting John help him up. “Okay,” John says, squeezing his hands gently, “bend your knees a bit, and turn your toes out - not too much. Yeah, there you go.”

“I feel ridiculous,” Sherlock mumbles.

“You look ridiculous,” John agrees.

“This doesn’t help with the moving part.”

“Hang on, I’m getting there,” John promises. He looks over his shoulder to be sure the way is clear, then digs the toe of his blade into the ice and pushes away gently, skating backwards. They slide slowly and Sherlock grips John’s hands like his life depends on it, not even daring to move his feet.

“We’re going to fall.”

“We aren’t going to fall,” John promises. It would be less likely if Sherlock had a bit more support, though. “You’re too far away. Come here.” Sherlock furrows his brows in confusion, and John carefully pulls him closer, letting go of his hands to hold his elbows instead. John looks up at him and beams. “Hello,” he murmurs.

Sherlock finally smiles. “Hello,” he replies. His arms are too long to hold John’s elbows as well, so he hesitantly puts them on John’s waist and looks down bashfully. “Erm, thank you. This is… nice.”

John kicks his toe against the ice again. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I apologise for - well.”

“Being a dick?”

Sherlock laughs softly. “Yes, that.”

“It’s okay,” John says. He squeezes Sherlock’s arms gently. “I know I’ve been pushing you, and I’m sorry for that. I just want you to have a good time. I was afraid you were already bored of me.” Sherlock doesn’t look up at him and John’s heartbeat stumbles. “You aren’t, are you?”

Sherlock glances up through his eyelashes shyly. “No.”

John nods. “Right. Right.” He looks around the skating rink, trying to seem nonchalant. “Any particular reason you haven’t… I don’t know, spoken to me during our entire honeymoon?”

Sherlock falls silent again. His fingertips press into John’s sides nervously. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging.

“Sherlock, you can tell me the truth,” John promises.

They glide to a stop and John doesn’t push off again. Sherlock sighs. “It’s not because of you,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s about me or not,” John insists. “Well. I mean, I’d like to know if I’ve upset you, but what I mean is you don’t have to stew alone in your thoughts. You can talk to me. You know, as your husband.”

“It’s just... strange. I’m… not quite used to it,” Sherlock says, looking away shyly.

“Neither am I. I’m not usually so…”

“Persistent?” Sherlock suggests, glancing back to John and smiling softly.

“Open,” John corrects, mirroring the expression. “I don’t generally… _talk_ about things.”

Sherlock’s smile quickly turns into a frown. “Then why are you trying to make _me_ talk about these things?” he huffs. He doesn’t pull away, which John takes as a good sign to continue.

“This is supposed to be a new start for the both of us,” John says. “A clean slate. I just… want everything out on the table. I want to be honest with you about everything. I want this to work.” He looks around the skating rink at the other couples and families enjoying themselves and he smiles. “We should go somewhere else, yeah? It’s getting late. Let’s have dinner.”

Sherlock nods, letting his arms fall from John’s sides.

John notices that Sherlock is standing upright without any support and he smiles radiantly. “Look at that,” he says proudly. “You’re standing all on your own.”

Sherlock smirks. “So are you,” he points out.

John furrows his brow, still smiling. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock takes his hand - as well as grabbing the wall of the rink - and slowly pulls John toward the entrance. He points to the benches where they left their shoes. John notices his cane lying on the floor, abandoned.

John laughs in disbelief, glancing down at his legs. “Christ, I didn’t even - I completely forgot.”

“Yes, well, that was the point,” Sherlock says, looking satisfied.

“Hang on, did you pretend to be terrible at skating to trick me?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, “I really am quite awful, I just figured I could use it to my advantage.”

“So, you actually did fall on your arse immediately after stepping on the ice,” John says, shooting Sherlock an impish look.

Sherlock blushes, huffing softly. “I may have embellished.”

“I don’t think you could fake the squeal you made.”

“Oh, shut up, it worked. You jumped to your feet to save the day.”

“Mm, my damsel in distress,” John teases. Sherlock bites back a smile and John laughs, leading them off the ice. He helps Sherlock onto the bench and takes his other hand, squeezing both warmly. “Thank you.”

Sherlock blushes, and lets his arms fall into his lap when John lets go of his hands. John sits beside him and starts unlacing his skates. He notices Sherlock isn’t moving and nudges him gently.

“Right, yes,” Sherlock mumbles. He slowly bends over and starts undoing his laces. “You’re welcome, John.”

* * *

 

“So, it’s down in Marylebone?”

“Yes, right on Baker Street,” Sherlock says. He cautiously lowers himself into the hot tub and John can tell just by looking at him that he’s going to be red as a lobster when they get out. “I wouldn’t usually suggest such an expensive location, but seeing as I know the landlady and neither of us currently has permanent housing, I feel it could work out in our favour.”

“Does she know about - well. Our situation?” John asks. He leans against the wall of the pool, laying his arms out on the cold tile around the edges.

Sherlock raises his brows. “The married strangers situation? It came up in the conversation.” He lowers himself into the water all the way up to his chin - he has to fold his knees under him to fit. He looks ridiculous.

John finds that he’s thinking that more and more often; when Sherlock is still and composed, he looks rather put together. Sharp, intelligent - almost intimidating, really, with the intense stare and the cheekbones. At any other moment, though, he looks like a toddler who hasn’t figured out how the world works yet. It’s incredible how uncoordinated and confused he is most of the time. Especially in swim trunks. He’s been wearing posh suits every day since the ceremony - John almost thought that when he suggested the jacuzzi Sherlock was going to say he didn’t own swim trunks. He has knobbly knees, and he’s a lean thing; looking at him without his shirt on for the first time, John’s second thought was that he’d been sick recently.

His _first_ thought… well.

He comes out of his thoughts and inhales sharply. “It’s weird,” he says, shrugging. “Moving in together, if it doesn’t - if we don’t - you know.”

An uneasy expression crosses over Sherlock’s face and he sits up again, visibly shivering when the wind blows lightly. “We don’t both have to sign the lease,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself under the water.

“We both signed the marriage license,” John says. “We can both sign the lease. If you want to, I mean. Although, I have to wonder, is it always going to be like this?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks.

“Me, coaxing you into interacting with me, like earlier,” John says. “I know - it’s early, and I’m not being myself, either. I just want to know if I did something to upset you.”

Sherlock frowns. “No.”

“Am I asking too much?” John wonders. “Am I being too pushy?”

“ _No_. Well, a bit, now,” Sherlock huffs.

“Okay,” John says, “sorry. I just - ”

“Want to understand, want to know, want to be a part of it, I _get_ it,” Sherlock snaps. His jaw clenches and he sighs through his nose.

John takes a slow breath. “You don’t want me to.”

“We met _this week_ ,” Sherlock says. “You don’t know me, you don’t have any clue - ”

“About what?” John interrupts.

“People don’t _like_ me,” Sherlock spits. He glares at John, looking more sad than angry. “You don’t know me,” he repeats.

“And you think that when I do know you, I won’t like you, so you stopped talking to me,” John concludes. Sherlock looks away, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Sherlock, you can’t shut me out before I get a _chance_ to know you.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes slowly. “You - ”

“I may not know you, but you don’t know me, either,” John says, cutting him off. Sherlock opens his mouth again, but John continues, “You think _you_ know _me_ , but you don’t. You can’t know _everything_ about a person just from looking at them.”

A moment passes before Sherlock opens his eyes again and looks at John. “Balance of probability,” he says, but he sounds uncertain.

“There’s always an outlier,” John says. Sherlock’s lower lip trembles and he looks away again. It hurts to watch; John wants to know who managed to convince this man that he’s unlovable. “Let’s just let this run and see where it goes.”

Sherlock nods and John shifts, floating over to sit next to him. “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, hardly audible.

John gently touches his arm and Sherlock hesitates, then turns to face John. “Give me a chance?” John requests.

Sherlock’s gaze shifts from John’s eyes to his lips. He leans in, sliding against John in the water, and kisses John’s upper lip. It’s enchantingly soft and their noses bump together; John’s heart pounds happily in his chest and he raises a hand to rest against Sherlock’s neck. He directs it into a proper kiss, the tip of his nose pressed to Sherlock’s cheek, lips moving against each other slowly. It’s the longest they’ve kissed yet, and it’s… breathtaking.

They pull back after a moment, still close enough to breathe each other’s air. John licks his lips and lets out a small, shaky sigh. “It’s, ah - it’s late. We should call it a night.”

“Yes, we should,” Sherlock agrees quietly. Neither of them moves; John’s hand is still pressed to Sherlock’s neck. He lets it drift back into the water, brushing down Sherlock’s chest along the way. Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest and he finally shifts away, blinking himself out of his stupor. “I’m... going to go dry off,” he mutters. He lifts himself out of the tub, shivering when the cold air hits him, and grabs his towel as he leaves.

John watches him go, biting his lip. “Be right there,” he promises. He runs a hand through his hair and slumps against the wall of the tub.

 _Christ_. Is it even possible to be in this deep already?

He shakes his head and sighs heavily. How can Sherlock not see just how _good_ he is? John can tell already - not the same way Sherlock can, but he can just… he can _feel_ it, and he wants Sherlock to understand.

He takes a breath and lets it out sharply, then sits up and swims over to the stairs. He wraps up and heads back to their room, feeling determined. He’s just going to have to show Sherlock what he sees. He’s not going to throw away the shot Sherlock gave him.


	5. Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return from their honeymoon. The newlyweds have known each other for less than a week but must now decide where to live and move in together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to profoundly apologize to Alyssa and everyone else for taking so long to put up the next chapter. Between school, work, and my mental health, I'm a bit swamped and I've had trouble writing, but here it finally is! I love this fic and I promise not to abandon it.
> 
> Big hugs to Rebekah [softsons](www.softsons.tumblr.com) and Bob [sincerelywrong](www.sincerelywrong.tumblr.com) for betaing and editing!

As the mid-day sun beats down and glints off the lens of the camera and into John’s eyes, he does his best not to squint. They’ve tried five other positions on this slab of pavement, but the sun either shines directly in John’s eyes or bounces off something else, which is almost worse.

“It is strange, moving in together - we only just met,” John laughs, blinking a few times in quick succession. He glances up at the brick building next to him and smiles, strained. “I do think it’s going to work, though. Neither of us had a, ah, permanent place to stay, before the wedding, so finding a new place together should be - an experience. A good one.”

The assistant standing next to the cameraman shoots John a thumbs up and looks back at her clipboard. “Right, next one; are you worried you won’t be able to agree on an apartment? Do you think he might have different housing tastes than you? Try to elaborate on what you prefer in a lodging, maybe a bad flat you lived in before. Whenever you’re ready.”

John raises his brows, thinking for a moment. “Okay. I don’t feel like we’ll have too many problems,” he says, tossing in a fake, charming grin. “We’re getting on well, so far. At this point, anywhere he wants to live has got to be better than the last place I was in.”

“Elaborate on that,” the assistant requests. “Any specific memories? Bad flatmates?”

John hesitates, his grin faltering. The image of his gun sitting in his desk flashes through his mind. He clears his throat, wishing he hadn’t mentioned anything about his old flat. “Ah, it was. Just a ruddy old bedsit. I was just out of the army and I needed somewhere. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t any kind of home.”

“And you’d like to find that sense of home with Sherlock?” the assistant asks.

“Yeah,” John says, feeling a bit distant. The assistant clears her throat and John comes back to himself. “Er, yeah, yes, I’d like to find that - with Sherlock.” He smiles halfheartedly and the assistant nods.

“Alright, thanks John. We’re going to do the same with Sherlock for a moment, if you’ll stand over by the cafe. When we’re finished, you two can head in to look at the flat.”

John steps away, taking a slow breath as he walks over to the building. He leans against the wall and shuts his eyes, basking in the relief of the shade. When the sun spots have left, he opens his eyes. A few assistants have ushered Sherlock over to where John had been standing. He’s pouting, and John can see that he’s trying with all his might not to shove them all away as they fuss over his mic and wires. 

John wonders if Sherlock will ask about where he used to live, too. Come to think of it, John doesn’t know why Sherlock is out of a flat, either. He should probably ask, but then he would have to talk about his last place, too. Part of the whole open, communicative marriage he wants to have. Thinking about it, though, makes John’s stomach turn. This is supposed to be his fresh start -  _ their _ fresh start, since it’s clear Sherlock has had his own trouble over the years. John doesn’t want to go back to thinking about how he felt before he married Sherlock.

The thought surprises him. So far, he hasn’t really stopped to think about how  _ he  _ feels about this whole situation. It’s been non-stop since the wedding and he’s been focused on trying to get Sherlock to open up; he hasn’t bothered with himself. 

He smiles when he realises how happy he feels. When he signed up for this, he expected it would take far longer to open up to someone, but something about Sherlock just compels him to be  _ himself _ . They’ve had a fantastic time once they got past the mess on the honeymoon. 

Still, they’ve only just got back. They’re going to be living together, and John doesn’t have a clue what Sherlock is like in his everyday life. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s like either; namely, boring. He frowns, letting out a long sigh.

“All this filming takes such a long time, don’t you think?”

John comes back to himself and looks around in surprise. An older woman is standing just outside the door to the building, smiling at him. “Er, yeah, it does,” he says. “Sorry, are you the landlady?”

“Martha Hudson,” she says, holding a hand out. 

John takes it firmly but gently, smiling. “John Watson,” he greets. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “When Sherlock called to tell me you two were interested in the flat I was  _ so  _ excited - he’s never introduced me to one of his young men.”

John laughs. “Have you two known each other awhile?” he asks.

“Oh, a little more than five years, now. He helped me out in a spot of trouble. I’ve been trying to get him to move up here for ages, I’m so glad you’ve agreed to come look around.”

“Well, it’s a lovely part of town,” John says. “There’s not a lot that could make me pass this up, and this is the only place Sherlock seems interested in.”

“Have you two been getting on well?” Mrs. Hudson asks eagerly.

“Yeah, I think so,” John says, smiling proudly. “Are you married?”

“Widowed,” Mrs. Hudson amends, “but it’s all for the better.”

“Was he sick?”

“No, nothing like that.” She pauses, hesitant, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “He got into a bit of trouble in the states, actually. That’s when I met Sherlock.”

“Was he involved in the case?” John asks.

“He fixed up everything,” Mrs. Hudson says, her smile shining in the sunlight. “He’s an absolute angel.” 

John furrows his brows, confused. “So - sorry, what happened to your husband, then, if Sherlock got him out of trouble?”

Mrs. Hudson gives him a puzzled look, then laughs, putting a hand on John’s arm. “Oh, no, dear, you misunderstood. Sherlock didn’t get him out of trouble - he made sure that my husband was. Well.” She looks over to the camera crew, then leans closer to John. “ _ Taken care of _ ,” she intones.

John blinks a few times, the statement still processing with him. After a moment his brows shoot up. “He  _ what?” _

“Mrs. Hudson, what nonsense have you been telling my husband?” Sherlock interrupts, walking up to the pair. They smile at each other, John looking between them in a bewildered fashion.

“Never you mind,” she says, flapping a hand at him, “come give me a hug, young man.”

Sherlock laughs softly and steps forward, wrapping her up in a hug. It’s sweet enough that John’s shock wears off for a second. They pull apart and Sherlock absolutely beams at her. “Let’s go have a look at the flat, shall we?”

“You two go ahead, I’ll bring up some tea,” she says, patting his arm. She heads inside and Sherlock starts to follow, but John grabs his arm.

“Hang on,” John says, pulling him back. He glances over at the camera crew, who are preoccupied with picking things up and getting ready to move inside. He looks back at Sherlock sternly. “Mrs. Hudson was just telling me about her husband,” he says knowingly.

Sherlock blinks at him. “Yes, that does seem an apt topic of conversation for someone speaking to a newlywed.”

John stares at him, unamused. “I’m sure I heard wrong, but she was telling me how he died and mentioned that you were… involved.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, still just looking at John blankly, so John huffs. “Sherlock, she said that you ensured he was ‘taken care of.’ Pardon me if that doesn’t exactly sound…  _ legal. _ ”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “For god’s sake, John, she’s an old woman. She exaggerates. I was involved in the legal proceedings. He was sentenced to death in America. I merely supplied some convincing evidence to ensure there was follow-up for that sentence.”

John opens his mouth to reply, then snaps his mouth shut again. He probably should have assumed as much right away. “Sorry, that was a bit… Well, I guess I’m just - ”

“Paranoid?” Sherlock asks, quirking a brow. 

John makes a noise in protest, but realises halfway through that that’s exactly he was going for. “Erm, yes. Sorry.”

Sherlock smirks. “I assure you it’s not the first time someone has assumed I was the murderer,” he says. The smug look flickers away for a moment and a quiet sadness fills its place. “Let’s look at the flat, shall we?” he says, coming back to himself.

Feeling a bit humbled, John gestures for Sherlock to lead the way. As they walk in, John silently berates himself. What on earth made him think like that? He had told himself that he wasn’t going to take anything at face value with Sherlock, and someone managed to convince himself in a second flat that Sherlock was some kind of hitman. He does his best to urge away the embarrassed flush on his neck as they walk up the stairs to the flat. 

It’s a lovely apartment, but John wouldn’t guess that it was uninhabited because it’s full of so much  _ stuff _ \- there are stacks of papers on the desk and books on the shelves. There’s a human skull on the mantelpiece and he’s not sure he wants to look closer to see just how real it is. When he looks into the kitchen, he sees a professional chemistry set covering the length of the table and some of the counters.

“This is lovely, really,” John says, still peering into the kitchen.  _ Is that a blow torch? _ “But - Sherlock, have you already moved in?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock says. John turns back to the sitting room, where Sherlock is looking around at his things shyly. “Yes, I figured since we have no other prospects and I assumed - well, I knew - you would like this one, I just… had my things moved while we were in Stockholm.”

“Ah.” John nods and looks around. It  _ is  _ nice - warm, homey, and a bit morbid, which he can’t deny is funny, if not exactly welcoming. He doesn’t have any complaints, really. “Bit presumptuous, just assuming I wouldn’t want to look anywhere else.” 

Sherlock blushes. “Yes.”

John smiles. “It kind of makes up for me thinking you were a murderer back there,” he teases.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkle. “That happened after the fact,” he counteracts.

“Sure, but I didn’t know you’d already decided on our lodgings until just now, so I think we’re even.”

“I’ll settle if you agree that I was right about you liking it here.”

“Deal,” John concedes. “You were right. I love it, actually. I think… well. I think this works.”

The softest smile lights up Sherlock’s face. “We should get you moved in, then. Do you want me to help pack? Or we could just send someone to get your things.”

“Erm, that’s… not really necessary,” John says, folding his hands behind his back. Sherlock draws his brows together as John wavers. “I’m… just about everything I own is in my case back at the hotel. Whatever’s left at my bedsit won’t even fill a box.”

He cringes, expecting an awkward conversation, but Sherlock just smiles and nods. “Fantastic, we’re practically done already. Shall we head over and get the rest of your things now?”

The image of his sad, grey bedsit comes to mind and John swallows against his tight throat. “You don’t have to come, it’ll barely take five minutes.”

“Even better, we’ll get it done twice as quick.” Sherlock heads toward the door, turning to look at John when he opens it. His expression falls when he sees John’s hesitation. “I - apologise, I’m being too forward. You don’t want my help.”

“No, Sherlock - ”

“It was my mistake, I - ”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts firmly, taking a step towards him, “it’s fine. We’re supposed to be doing this together, you didn’t make a mistake.” Sherlock looks away shyly. John takes a deep breath, letting it out in a soft sigh. “I just - you know about my military history. When I was… when I got back, from Afghanistan, they just shoved me wherever there was space, and this place is it. It’s… sad. I’ve been focused on starting something new, I just didn’t want to share the old.” 

He frowns, face downcast. “I’ve been pushing you, so I should learn to take as much as I give. You can come with me.”

Sherlock’s hands squeeze the door nervously. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes, I want you to,” John promises. He walks over to Sherlock and leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Although, I will admit I’m disappointed that I won’t be able to see your last place.”

“I could make it happen,” Sherlock says, smiling. “Well. Short of any legal means.”

“I think I can live without,” John laughs, patting his arm. “Let’s go get this over with, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

 

A layer of dust is unsettled when John opens the door to his bedsit. The entire room smells like the stuff, churning through the air in its sudden turmoil. 

John grimaces. He hasn’t been here in almost two weeks - the producers put him up in a hotel a few days before the wedding to do interviews. After seeing the new flat, his bedsit feels like a shoebox. A dingy one, at that. 

“Sorry,” John murmurs, setting his keys on the desk. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s apologizing for - certainly not the mess. The room is bare, lacking in anything that would make it even a bit homey. Hospital corners on the bed, blank walls. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages. Hard to believe he’s been living here for months.

Living. It doesn’t feel like the right word. Surviving; even that’s a stretch. Suffering feels too melodramatic.

Existing. That’s about all he did.

He looks around, cheeks warming. “Well, this is… it.” He watches Sherlock’s gaze flickering around the room and wonders what he sees. A sad little box. A pathetic, broken man who didn’t even try to make a new home for himself. He swallows hard. “It’s, ah. I’ll start packing.”

He walks over and grabs a case from beneath his bed. All that’s left in the flat are some summer clothes, a few dishes, and the contents of his desk. When he turns around he finds Sherlock watching him expectantly, waiting for a task.

“Er,” John murmurs, frowning, “There are dishes in the kitchen - if you want to. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s… fine. I’ll get them.” Sherlock smiles shortly and heads over to the kitchen. 

John lets out a soft sigh and rubs his forehead. Right.  _ Just get it over with and leave. You’ll be done with this place forever _ .

He grabs his clothes from the closet and puts them in the bottom of the case. Sherlock comes back with the dishes, holding out a mug with a raised brow. “St. Bart’s?” he asks.

“Ah, yeah,” John says, awkwardly smiling. He takes the mug and looks at the logo on the surface. “It’s where I did my Foundation years.”

“Funny,” Sherlock mutters, starting to pack dishes into the case with John’s clothes.

John frowns. “What’s funny?”

“I occasionally borrow a lab at Bart’s when I’m working a case,” Sherlock says. “The hospital’s owner owes me a favour.”

“What did you do for him?”

“Did you hear about Harold Shipman a few years back?”

“The doctor who was killing his patients,” John recalls.

Sherlock smirks. “My solve.”

John starts to grin in disbelief. “Hang on,  _ you  _ caught Doctor Death?”

“Doctor Death is such a bland epithet,” Sherlock says disapprovingly.

John rolls his eyes. “Not the point.  _ You _ caught him?”

Sherlock beams. “Yes, I did.”

“He killed over two hundred people.”

“Somehow, I was one of the only ones who caught on to how high his patient mortality rate was.”

John huffs a laugh, beaming at Sherlock. “It’s hard to believe some of the things you’ve told me, you know.”

Sherlock scans his face. “You still do, though.”

“I still do,” John agrees. They grin stupidly at each other for a moment. 

John clears his throat and nods, turning to put the mug in his case. “Almost done,” he says. “Just need to clear out the desk.”

Sherlock stands by as John starts rifling through the drawers. “Do you plan on finding work?” he asks.

John glances up at him curiously. “Yes. We have to pay rent, don’t we?”

Sherlock hums, leaning over to look at the papers John is pulling out of the drawer. “I suppose we do,” he mutters.

“Not sure where, yet,” John continues, pulling out a little tin full of photos, “I’m a bit out of practise when it comes to the job market.”

“Mm, London is a disaster,” Sherlock says, reaching for the tin. 

John gently bats his hand away. “Always room for another GP.” He shuts the top drawer and reflexively reaches for the next, then freezes.  _ Shit.  _ “Er, would you mind checking the loo to see if I left anything?”

Sherlock eyes him dubiously. “Alright. Back in a minute.” 

John waits until he’s out of sight, then quickly and silently slides open the desk drawer and grabs his gun. He takes a slow breath, staring at it in a slight panic. An illegal firearm is not something he wanted to start a marriage with.  _ Shit _ . He should have gotten rid of it ahead of time. God knows Sherlock doesn’t seem easily fazed, but it’s just another secret. Not even to mention what he’d be able to deduce if he found it. It feels like his heart is in his throat, crowding and choking him. 

He hadn’t been doing well before. And now… It’s early, sure, but he feels  _ better _ . Being with Sherlock makes him feel good. But you don’t tell someone that they’ve helped with your ceding suicidal urges, and you  _ definitely _ don’t show them the illegal gun you would have used to do it.

“John, is the shower curtain yours?” Sherlock calls out.

John quickly stands up straight, checks the safety, and shoves the gun in the back of his jeans. “Ah, no - it’s the landlord’s,” he says, walking over to the loo. He leans in and sees Sherlock looking at the shower in disgust.

“Good, it’s hideous,” Sherlock says, turning to face John. He quirks a brow. “Are you alright?”

John tries to make his expression completely neutral. “Yeah, yeah, I’m - fine. Great, actually.” He pretends to glance around curiously. “Anything left in here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

John smiles mildly. “Right. Good. I think only the desk is left, then. I’ll finish up - d’you want to call a cab?”

Sherlock still looks unsure, but nods in return and pulls out his phone. “I’ll step into the kitchen.”

“Good - great,” John parrots again. He watches Sherlock stroll into the kitchen and lets out a soft sigh. His hand floats around to the gun. He shakes himself out of his stupor and pulls his shirt down roughly.

Right. Illegal firearms and suicide are topics for another day, if ever. Tonight he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have to talk about  _ anything _ to do with this place.

“Alright, the cab will be here in five minutes,” Sherlock says, walking back into the room. “Are you almost ready?”

“Yeah,” John says, whirling around to turn his back from Sherlock’s line of sight. He gestures at the desk offhandedly. “You want to help me toss the rest of this in my case?”

Sherlock squints, looking him up and down as John does his best not to shift uncomfortably. “You’re sure you’re alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” John promises, nodding assuredly. It’s kind of nice, seeing Sherlock’s concern for him. It would be nicer if there wasn’t a gun jabbing the small of his back.

After another few seconds of uneasily staring at each other, Sherlock gradually relaxes. “Well, let’s finish up, then. Since I’m already moved in, we just need to have your things sent over from the hotel and we’ll be done for the evening. Do you like Chinese?”

“Chinese?”

“Takeaway,” Sherlock clarifies. “For dinner tonight.”

John smiles. “I do, yeah,” he says. “Do you like Bond?”

Sherlock furrows his brows. “What?”

“James Bond. The movies.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one,” Sherlock says, shrugging and starting to pull things out of John’s desk.

John scoffs in surprise. “Seriously?” he asks. Sherlock doesn’t reply. “Right, that settles it - takeaway and Bond movies. It’s a date.”

Sherlock looks over at him, cheeks pink. “It’s a date,” he echoes.

 

* * *

 

 

“It just seems a bit outlandish, even for a movie,” Sherlock insists, waving his chopsticks around.

“That’s the  _ point _ ,” John says. He swallows his mouthful of food and gestures at the telly. “It’s an action film, it’s supposed to be all drama and excitement, logic forgotten.”

“You  _ would  _ like completely baseless movies,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, you only like it for the bloke who plays Bond.”

“Daniel Craig?”

“Your rapt attention certainly wasn’t on the hole-filled plot. You think he’s attractive.”

John feels his face heat up and he huffs. “ _ Whatever _ .” He catches a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, which is a mix of amused and bitter. He grins. “Hang on, are you jealous?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to huff. “I am  _ not _ ,” he mutters. 

“Oh, that’s sweet,” John says, grinning. “Really, it’s adorable.”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Sherlock insists, holding back a laugh.

John snickers. “Did you think he was attractive?”

“A bit. Not as much as you did,” Sherlock says, raising a brow.

“Not your type?”

“Not quite there, no.”

“And what is your type?” John teases.

Sherlock smiles softly. “I’d have to say you’re fitting the bill,” he hums.

John’s smile grows and he leans over, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock makes a quiet, pleased sound. His hand settles on John’s knee.

“You taste like mushroom chicken,” John murmurs, grinning against Sherlock’s lips.

“Do you like that?” Sherlock jests. 

John laughs and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I could.”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes Sherlock sigh, leaning away from John. “That’s probably Mrs. Hudson. She can be bad about knocking.”

There are three loud knocks on the door, and Sherlock squints. “Maybe not,” he murmurs. He stands, fingers dragging against John’s knee as he pulls his hand away. He opens the door and makes a surprised sound.

“I thought you were supposed to be taking a break from consulting me,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, well, you just got back from a two week vacation. That’s break enough, don’t you think?”

John furrows his brow. The voice sounds familiar. He tries to peer around Sherlock to get a look at whoever is in the doorway.

“I never requested time off,” Sherlock asserts.

“Again, you don’t work for me, and I ‘gave’ you time off so you could go get married to a stranger,” the voice maintains.

“Speaking of,” Sherlock mutters, looking over his shoulder at John. The voice in the doorway leans around Sherlock and John finally gets a look at him. It’s the other bloke from Sherlock’s wedding party. Christ, what was his name?

“Oh,” he says, lifting a hand to wave at John. “Hello.”

“Ah, hi,” John says. The name comes back to him suddenly. “Greg?”

He nods. “John,” he says in return, looking a bit unsure.

“Right,” John affirms. It goes awkwardly silent.

“Well, that was… something,” Sherlock says after a moment. He turns back to Greg. “What do you need, Lestrade?”

Lestrade huffs a sigh. “There was another Tabard Gardens murder. Body was found this morning.”

Sherlock’s face brightens. “Left on a doorstep?”

“On the third floor of an apartment building,” Lestrade confirms. 

“Oh, he’s really in it for the thrill,” Sherlock says, similarly exhilarated. “Why didn’t you call me this morning? They’ll have taken the body to the morgue, now.”

“I didn’t know what time you’d be back. Will you come?”

“Text me the address,” Sherlock tells him, already stepping away to reach for his coat. “Tell the forensics team to stop messing with the evidence. I’ll be there in half an hour, tops.”

“Don’t bribe the cabby to speed,” Lestrade warns.

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. “You ruin all my fun.”

“Let me know when you’re five minutes out,” Lestrade says, ignoring him and starting toward the stairs.

Sherlock makes a vaguely affirmative sound and Lestrade waves to John again before leaving. The door in the foyer shuts and the noise echoes up to the flat.

“So… you’re leaving?” John asks after a beat. He tries not to voice his disappointment.

“Astute observation,” Sherlock notes. He wobbles around, simultaneously trying to pull on his right shoe and his scarf. His coat is only half on.

“Where are you going?”

“Southwark,” Sherlock states. He nearly trips on the hem of his coat, so John gets up to help him. He pulls the rest of Sherlock’s coat on and ties the scarf around his neck and Sherlock smiles at him. “There have been four murders in the Tabard Gardens neighbourhood, this is the fifth. All left on doorsteps or back porches. Timing puts the bodies moved at mid-morning, with high risk of being seen. He’s a thrill seeker. An exhibitionist.”

A shiver runs down John’s back at the exaltation in Sherlock’s voice. He hides his flushed cheeks by bending down to pick up Sherlock’s gloves, which he dropped on the floor in the midst of his flustered dressing. 

“Yes, well,” he murmurs, thrusting the gloves at Sherlock’s chest, “be careful. I don’t think someone like that would hesitate to try and kill you.”

“People can be surprising,” Sherlock says, pulling the gloves on. He grabs a little cloth toolkit off a stack of newspapers and spins off toward the door. He freezes with a hand on the doorframe and turns to look back at John, contemplative. “You said you want to look for work here, didn’t you?”

John frowns, confused. “Ah, yeah. I’ll probably give myself the weekend to get settled before I start looking.”

Sherlock shuffles his feet, looking away shyly. “Would you like to come with me?”

John’s interest piques. “I’m - sorry, what?”

“I know the qualifications of a medical doctor are slightly different than that of a medical examiner, but Scotland Yard’s forensics team doesn’t like to work with me and you need a job,” Sherlock rambles. He grimaces. “That is, I meant to say, you might enjoy this more than a nine to five job at the surgery.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, they won’t even let me in the building,” John says, trying not to sound disappointed. Of course it sounds more interesting than a clinic job, but he isn’t going to fuel Sherlock’s fire. There’s no way he’d be let within a ten foot radius of the crime scene, let alone allowed to help examine it. He isn’t going to let Sherlock (or himself) get his hopes up. “I don’t have any credentials, experience - anything. They won’t allow it.”

“You’re with me,” Sherlock insists. “That’ll be enough for them.”

“I’m not sure it’s enough for me,” John counters. “Honestly, Sherlock, I’m just a doctor.”

Sherlock pauses, sucking at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’re an army doctor.”

A little jolt of pain runs through John’s leg. “Was,” he corrects solemnly.

“You were a doctor who went to war,” Sherlock repeats. “You have invaluable experience, things that I’ve never seen and never will.”

John stares him down, trying not to let himself get pulled in only to be let down later. “All things you’ll need to know for a neighbourhood stabbing, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. The corner of his lip tips up. “That, and I might need you there. Could be dangerous.”

The breath rushes out of John’s chest and his heart pounds in some kind of Pavlovian response to the word.  _ Dangerous _ . It feels like he’s been waiting to hear it since the day he got back from Afghanistan. His life has been all physical therapy and psychiatric evaluations and staring at a grey wall for hours with nothing to fill his time. Running off to marry Sherlock is the wildest thing he’s done since he was invalided, and already they’re settling in nicely.

He went into medicine to follow it - the rush, the excitement. The danger. He went to war to follow it. He got married to follow it; married to a stranger who’s now waving it in front of his face like a bone for a dog, and how is he supposed to resist? 

“John?”

John blinks himself out of his thoughts and clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Ah, yeah - dangerous,” John says, smiling mildly.

Sherlock smirks. “I asked if you were going to come with me.”

John holds his breath. He still doesn’t think they’ll let him on the site, and he knows he’s going to be disappointed when he’ll be forced to head back home without Sherlock, but he keeps hanging on to that one word.  _ Dangerous. _

“John,” Sherlock repeats.

“I’ll come," John exhales. He half-smiles, hoping he doesn’t seem completely out of his mind. “I’ll come with you.”

Sherlock absolutely beams, his eyes twinkling. “Good,” he says softly. An impish look crosses over him. “You should bring that gun you hid away in your new nightstand, too. We might need it.”

The smile drops off John’s face and his stomach falls to the floor like a stone. Sherlock is gone and down the stairs before John can even start to protest.

_ Jesus Christ, _ he thinks,  _ this man is going to kill me. _

After a minute of standing there, frozen in shock, he goes and fetches his gun from the bedroom and follows Sherlock down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if we're being technical, Harold Shipman's murders took place in like. the 1990s but I don't care


	6. Everyday Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John, who met at the altar just over a week ago, begin to settle into everyday life. Having just moved in together, they are now facing the challenges of living with their new spouse who they barely know. Will their different habits and ideologies cause conflict, or will they find understanding in one another?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) an apology for the wait. as many of you know, my mental and physical health have been on a steady decline lately, and my service dog in training and my former job took up almost all of my time. chapter seven is already in the works and i will have a lot more free time this semester, as well as a new focus on writing in my work life, so i might even feel more inspired on this front!
> 
> 2) a hug and a kiss to both kate [propergenius](http://propergenius.tumblr.com/) and rachel [thatonewritergirl]() for beta editing. thank you for dealing with my hot mess
> 
> 3) i never in my life claimed to be good at casefics so ignore anything that isn't johnlock

The flashing police lights start reflecting off the windows of the cab just over a block away from the crime scene. John catches sight of the cabby’s expression in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry gents,” he says as they pull up a few feet from a line of police tape, “it looks like we’re blocked off. Do you want me to drive to the next street over?”

“No, this is where we’re headed,” Sherlock says, already climbing out of the cab.

John balks at him, then huffs and pulls out his wallet. “Here,” he mutters, handing over the fare. “Thanks.” He gets out and jogs after Sherlock, who he finds holding up the police tape for him to duck under. John smirks. “Charming.”

“Least I could do.”

“You can pay for the cab back home.”

Sherlock laughs and follows him under the tape. “Deal.”

Together they head through the small maze of police cars and John’s hesitance grows. “So, how do you expect to get me in there?”

“Simple,” Sherlock says, shrugging, “we walk in, and you pretend you’re a professional.”

“I _am_ a professional,” John huffs.

“A doctor, not a forensics specialist. They’ve already taken the body from the crime scene, there’s technically no need for you to be here.”

“Right. Why am I, again?”

“More fun,” Sherlock says, waving his hand to quiet John as they approach a group of officers. “Where’s Lestrade?”

“Hmm?” A woman in a tan coat turns around and scoffs when she sees Sherlock. “Weren’t you on some kind of vacation?”

“I’m back. Where is he?”

“Third floor, flat 3E.” She sees John hovering behind Sherlock a cocks a brow. “Who’s he?”

John opens his mouth to respond, but Sherlock cuts him off. “Doctor John Watson. He’s a colleague of mine.”

“Colleague?” John and the officer say in unison.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John with a scowl before turning back to the officer. “Partner,” he amends.

She smirks at the insinuation behind the words. “Well, far be it from me to stop you and your _partner_ from breaking the law.”

“We aren’t breaking the law, Sally,” Sherlock says, walking past her. John takes the move as permission to follow. “Lestrade asked me to come.”

“Did he ask him?” she questions, pointing at John.

“You know, you could ask me directly,” John says.

“He’s with me.”

“Oh, I’m invisible,” John concludes.

“Nonsense, John, you’re not invisible, you’re inaudible. Come on, Lestrade is waiting for us.” He gestures for John to follow him as he heads toward the stairs to the second floor. John jogs after him, skipping a bit to keep up with his ridiculously long strides.

“So,” John mutters. “Partner. That was a good deflection.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffs. “Our personal life is none of her business.”

John’s cheeks flush a bit. It’s strangely satisfying to hear Sherlock already referring to them as a unit. “Not embarrassed to have your husband along with you, then?”

Sherlock pauses abruptly in his trek up the stairs and looks back at John in confusion. “Why would I be?”

John takes a step back to avoid running right into Sherlock and clears his throat. “Well, I’m not going to be much use.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “You really don’t think much of yourself, do you?”

“Should I?”

Sherlock smiles softly. John squints at him, waiting for an answer. Sherlock nods for John to follow him the rest of the way up the stairs without a word. Huffing in frustration, John climbs up behind him the rest of the way. A section of the walkway is blocked off with more police tape and John catches sight of a small red pool by the doorstop of the nearest flat. Lestrade sees them and looks relieved for a moment, then frowns.

“What’s he doing here?” he asks, pointing at John. He winces, glancing at John. “No offense.”

John sighs. “None taken. It’s a common question tonight.”

“He’s a doctor, he has valuable insight,” Sherlock says.

“The body was already taken to the morgue,” Lestrade says, crossing his arms. His voice drops to a whisper. “Sherlock, if anyone finds out that I let him in on this with absolutely no credentials _just_ because you two are married - ”

“And no one _will_ ,” Sherlock interrupts, walking past him and ducking under the police tape. “Just trust me. Let’s go, John.”

John shares an exasperated look with Lestrade. “Can I - ?”

“Yeah, go on,” Lestrade huffs, waving him away.

John nods in gratitude and hurries after Sherlock. “Seriously?” he hisses when he catches up. “Can’t he, you know - arrest you?”

“He can,” Sherlock agrees, “but he won’t.”

“God, you’re even cockier than I thought.”

“And we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” Sherlock says, winking at him. John chokes on his own spit.

“Pathology took the body around noon,” Lestrade says, walking up behind them. “It was found around seven in the morning, same M.O. as the others.”

“Face bashed in?” Sherlock asks.

“Basically unrecognizable.”

“You should’ve called me, I would’ve found a way to be here even if I wasn’t home yet,” Sherlock mutters, crouching beside the doormat. He holds a hand out and Lestrade passes him a pair of gloves. “Have the victim’s personal belongings been brought back to the Yard?”

“Ah, yeah,” Lestrade says. “There wasn’t much.”

“Tell me.”

Lestrade sighs and pulls the evidence logs out of his pocket. He hums and unfolds them. “Loose coins, a bus transfer, a receipt from the corner store around the block, and keys. No wallet, like the others, but there was a wallet found down the street.”

Sherlock pauses his investigation of the doorframe. “What was in the wallet?”

“I.D. under the name Stuart Tyson, address 68 Newcomen Street, Borough, London, two credit cards, a Tesco Clubcard - ”

“Hang on,” Sherlock interrupts, “the address?” Lestrade looks up and hands over the papers. Sherlock scans them and grins. “Of _course_ . Oh, that is _rich_.”

“Christ, there are five people dead, Sherlock,” Lestrade huffs. “Can we skip the mysterious euphoric revelation, please? I really don’t have time.”

“None of the other victims had their addresses on them.” Sherlock jumps up and shoves the papers back at Lestrade. “I need to visit someone. Get the addresses of all the other victims and text them to me.” He starts off toward the stairs. “Come on, John!”

John blinks. Sherlock stops when he gets to the stairs and turns to look at John impatiently. John points at himself questioningly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock says exasperatedly.

“Right,” John mutters, following. He pauses halfway and glances back at Lestrade. “Is it alright - ?”

“Just go,” Lestrade sighs, waving him away. John nods and hurries after his husband, now down the stairs and out of sight. When he gets to the first floor he scans the parking lot, squinting against the flashing lights. He sees Sherlock standing on the edge of the kerb, face shoved in his phone. John smiles and strolls up behind him.

“Hey,” he says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock hums quietly in recognition. “You do know that you aren’t in charge, right?”

Sherlock scoffs, amused. “Aren’t I?” He puts his phone in his pocket and skips off the kerb. “Come on. We have a visit to pay.”

“To who?” John asks, trailing after him.

“Whom.”

“To _who_?” John repeats stubbornly.

Sherlock sighs. “Stuart Tyson’s landlord.”

“It’s nearly ten at night.”

Sherlock ignores him. “Why would someone repeatedly risk being caught in the act of murder when they could dump a body somewhere less public?” he asks.

John takes a deep breath and tries not to sound sardonic when he replies. “I think you said something about exhibitionism earlier.”

“Well, that was less a deduction and more a way to get you to come with me,” Sherlock admits.

“You know, it’s not the best habit to deduce someone’s sexual preferences if you aren’t sleeping with them,” John huffs.

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “I’ll seek to amend that.” After a moment they both freeze and Sherlock sputters, “The - the deducing, not - ”

“Right,” John agrees, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Good. I mean - ”

“How comfortable are you with breaking and entering?” Sherlock interrupts. His face is still bright red and John has half a mind to turn the conversation back around before Sherlock’s question registers with him.

“Hang on - breaking and entering? Sherlock, we’re working with the police!”

“Like you said, John, it’s nearly ten at night - the landlord likely won’t be awake and I just need a few little bits of information that aren’t worth a warrant.”

“If it’s worth breaking and entering, I think it’s worth a warrant.”

“You really do have a lot to learn,” Sherlock insists, starting off again.

John hustles after him, taking twice as many steps as Sherlock to keep up with his stride. “I don’t know what you do around here usually, but does any part of this scream ‘bad idea’ to you?”  
he asks, huffing. “You’re actually considering breaking and entering, and bringing _me_ with you - I’m not even supposed to be on the crime scene you’re _legally_ allowed to enter.”

“And yet, you continue to follow me,” Sherlock points out, glancing over to grin at him. They come up to an iron-clad fence and Sherlock grabs hold of the top and hoists himself up and over. He turns back and stares at John.

John blinks back at him. “Do you expect me to hop that?” He asks, disbelieving. “I really hate to bring it up, but I’m a lot shorter than you.”

“Only by a few inches,” Sherlock says, frowning.

“I can’t even reach the top without jumping!” John laughs, his tone somewhere between amused and boggled.

“So jump, then!”

“And what, catch it and pull myself over? With my shoulder?”

“Lord above, John, you’re talking about yourself like a man in his later life. You’re not even forty.”

“I was shot. In the shoulder.”

Sherlock groans and gestures frustratedly. “It’s not so easy to successfully break and enter if you’re seen rowing on the street beforehand. Just - here, step on my hands.” He crouches down behind the fence and puts his hands through, linking them together for John to use as a foothold. “I’ll shove you over, just _hurry up._ ”

“Christ, what did I sign myself up for?” John whispers, shaking his head. He grabs hold of the fence posts and gingerly puts his foot in Sherlock’s hands. “You ready, git?”

“ _Yes_ , get on with it,” Sherlock hisses.

John pushes himself up and Sherlock lifts. It’s a bit of a mess, with a decent amount of flailing, but John finds himself on the other side, leaning on Sherlock as he hops down to the ground.

“You know, you could have mentioned your tendency to break the law in your vows,” John mutters, brushing himself off.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s not breaking the law if you don’t get caught.”

John purses his lips, squinting at Sherlock through the dark. “Yeah, no - it’s still breaking the law.”

Sherlock sighs, trudging off through some stranger’s yard. “Come on, the landlord’s building is toward the centre of the complex.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” John huffs, stepping over a bush of carnations, “but we’re talking about boundaries when we get home.”

 

* * *

 

“Bills,” John whispers.

“Bills,” Sherlock echoes, tossing his handful of papers aside. “Bills. Bills. Is Mrs. Hudson drowning in these, too? This is unbelievable.”

“He does manage something like eight buildings,” John murmurs, peering at the mail in his hand. “And god knows how many flats in every block.”

Sherlock replies with a noncommittal noise and rifles around through the next pile. “Eviction notice,” he mutters, flipping an envelope over to carefully peel it open. He scans the paper, his eyes brightening even in the darkness. “John,” he hisses, “listen - ‘This serves as notice that you and all other tenants of this unit have been evicted, effective immediately. You are indebted to the landlord of the above described premises in the sum of twenty thousand pounds.”

“Jesus,” John murmurs, walking over to look at the notice. “Who’s it addressed to?”

Sherlock squints through the dark. “Bronte Maonaigh,” he reads.

“Hang on,” John says, “that’s - ”

“One of the victims from the news, yes,” Sherlock finishes, grinning. “Look for more copies, try to see if Stuart Tyson was issued a notice.”

John returns to his paper pile, shuffling through endless numbers of bills and invoices, trying to ignore some of the exhaustion weighing down his eyes. Doing all of this in the dark really isn’t helping; but then, being caught wouldn’t help too much, either. Still, he has to take breaks from reading to yawn every now and again.

He puts the papers back where he found them and grabs a few more out of a nearby filing cabinet. More bills. When he goes to put them back he sees a tab marked ‘debts,’ near the back. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, “come here.”

Sherlock looks up from his rifling and steps over to where John is peering into the filing cabinet. “What did you find?”

John reaches in and pulls out a red folder from behind the tab. He flips it open and grins. “I think I found what you’re looking for.”

Sherlock beams and takes the folder, pulling out the handful of eviction notices sitting inside. “Jolie Bernard, Theo Gladwyn, Catherine Quirk - there, Stuart Tyson,” he whispers reverently, pulling the paper to the top of the stack. “Indebted to the total of fifteen thousand pounds.”

“The landlord is killing them off because of their debts,” John mutters, slightly horrified.

“Not just because of their debts, but to _cover_ their debts. Family members, life insurance, savings - anything left can be used to pay their dues.”

“You got him,” John says, grinning.

The building creaks and groans as it settles and they both startle. John grabs Sherlock’s arm to still him, as though the house itself is going to catch them.

They both blush in the darkness and John drops his hand, awkwardly shuffling. “Er - we should, ah, put this place back together,” he murmurs, stooping down to gather a few dropped papers.”

“It was a mess when we got here,” Sherlock insists, tossing the eviction notices back into their folder and throwing it into the filing cabinet. “We need to get back to the main road, and if we’re going to get this all done in a timely manner, we have to skip tidying so I can argue with you at the fence again,” he teases.

“Oh, shut up,” John snorts, shoving the papers at Sherlock.

“What? I’m only being courteous of your need to be oppositional!” Sherlock promises, grinning ear-to-ear.

John laughs. “Says the one so against cooperation with the police that he broke into a suspect’s home.”

“It’s faster this way.”

“You mean it’s more dangerous,” John corrects smugly.

“And so, more fun,” Sherlock says, smirking at him. He pushes the window they climbed in through back open and gestures for John to lead the way. “You know, it’s a good thing the cameramen retired for the night. I can’t imagine what the studio would say about this.”

“I’m sure they’d think it a riot,” John says, grunting as he lifts himself out the window. “We haven’t given them any other drama, anyway.”

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asks, following.

“Well, we haven’t really fought,” John points out. “We decided on somewhere to live without arguing. We get on nicely. Well - I think we do,” he adds, glancing over at Sherlock and smiling. He blushes then, looking away. “We haven’t… done anything stupid.”

“Funny, I figured you’d think this would qualify.”

“Well, yeah, but I mean - we haven’t - you know, done anything ridiculous to sabotage our relationship. We haven’t pushed things further than we should.”

Sherlock blinks a few times, trying to put all the pieces together. “By which you mean we haven’t… had sex,” he concludes awkwardly.

John groans and covers his eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant. Well. It is, but it’s - that’s not what I was going for. I don’t want to sound like some sex-crazed arsehole. It’s just. You know. We haven’t.”

“Do you... want to?” Sherlock asks. His voice is soft and hesitant, and John can imagine that bright flush on his cheeks.

“It’s not important,” John dismisses, rubbing his neck.

“John, I don’t mean to insult you, but you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met,” Sherlock says. “It’s clearly important to you.”

They come up to the fence again and Sherlock immediately crouches down to help John over. John avoids looking him in the eye and simply shrugs while he gets into position to climb up. “Is it important to you?” he asks.

Sherlock stammers a bit and shoves John up and over the fence a bit too fast. He stumbles on the landing and huffs. “We ought to get out of here a bit more quickly,” Sherlock declares, pulling himself over after John. “This hasn’t been the best place to be at night, lately. Murders and all.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” John points out. “You can be honest with me, Sherlock.”

“I know!” Sherlock huffs. He takes a deep breath before gesturing for John to follow him to the main road. They start walking and Sherlock crosses his arms, closing himself off. “I told you before that work is important to me. My biggest priority.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think about anything else while I’m on a case. Not eating, not sleeping, not… sex,” he adds bashfully. “Not romance.”

“But you brought me,” John points out, smiling a bit.

“Well. Yes. For your professional opinion.”

“On what, exactly? The body they already removed from the crime scene, which I’m not qualified to examine anyway?”

“What’s your point?” Sherlock scoffs.

John’s smile grows into a grin. “You wanted me along just to have me along,” he says, shoving Sherlock’s arm teasingly.

Sherlock sighs and shoves back. “I wanted you to experience an important facet of my life,” he mutters, trying not to smile. “I’m married to my work, but now I’m married to you, too. So. There has to be an intersection somewhere.”

“That’s… really sweet,” John says. He reaches over and links his pinky finger with Sherlock’s, squeezing gently. Sherlock squeezes back and smiles. “Thank you for letting me be a part of your… illegal crime solving.”

“I think it’s a fun contradiction.”

“It’s illegal.”

“The benefits outweigh the legality issues.”

“Does Lestrade know?”

“He’s not the world’s _worst_ detective,” Sherlock says. “He knows how I come to my conclusions. It requires information. I have to get it _somehow_.”

“So he just lets you gather information however he thinks you do?” John asks.

“I don’t work for him,” Sherlock says, shrugging. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to collaborate with him, or any of the officers at Scotland Yard. I don’t take credit for the cases I help them solve.”

“Hang on - none of them?” John asks, bewildered. “How many have you helped them with?”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “At least three hundred over the past ten years. I fill the rest of my time with private clients.”

“And you never take credit for Scotland Yard’s solves,” John states.

“The chief superintendent wouldn’t take too kindly to knowing that his inspectors have been working with a private consultant, let alone one with my history.”

John starts to ask what Sherlock means by ‘his history’ when a police cruiser pulls up on the kerb, now just a few feet away from them. Lestrade climbs out and gestures them over.

“The addresses?” Sherlock asks excitedly.

“All in the neighbourhood,” Lestrade confirms.

“Get a warrant to search the landlord’s property,” Sherlock says. “Search his shed for a murder weapon. It’ll probably be the one that reeks of bleach. He’s not exactly a genius in this field.”

Lestrade nods and starts climbing back into his car. “You can give your witness statement to Sally back at the Yard while I’m getting the warrant. I’ll give you a lift.” He looks at John and takes a deep breath, sighing it back out and looking conflicted. “It would be better if you didn’t get involved,” he decides, pursing his lips. “I don’t know if this is going to be a regular thing with you two, but if it is, we’ll figure it out. For now, you should go home.”

John looks to Sherlock, waiting for a showy protestation, but he’s already on the phone calling a cab for him. Disappointed, he looks back to Lestrade and nods. “Yeah, alright.”

“Sorry,” Lestrade says, tossing him a sympathetic look and climbing back into his car.

John presses his lips together in the semblance of a polite smile and waits for Sherlock to finish up on the phone. He really ought to be grateful that he isn’t legally involved in housebreaking or searching without a warrant. Instead, he feels like he’s being tossed aside.

 _The work is his priority_ , he reminds himself, taking a deep breath.

“You alright?” Sherlock asks, cutting into his thoughts.

“Ah, yeah,” John says, nodding. He smirks. “I thought you don’t work for him?”

Sherlock laughs softly. “If I want to close the case I need to cooperate occasionally. The cab for you is going to be here in about five minutes. Should I… wait?”

He’s practically vibrating out of his skin and John knows there’s no way he could ask him to stay even if he wanted to. “You go ahead. I’ll see you at home, yeah?”

Sherlock bounces on his heels and grins. He turns and starts to run to the patrol car, then stops and awkwardly half-jogs back to John. “I promised,” he says, handing John a few notes for cab fare. He shyly leans in and kisses John goodbye, then runs off again.

John smiles. It’s probably better to just sit this one out, anyway.


	7. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly married couple has known each other for just two weeks; already, struggles with sex and trust are brought to light. John's patience is tested by Sherlock's disregard for his safety, and Sherlock is trying his hardest to open himself up to John. The couple meets with sexologist Dr. Mike Stamford to discuss their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy, shit's out in time!
> 
> biggest hugs and kisses to my wonderful friend and beta editor for this chapter, beth [withoutawish](http://withoutawish.tumblr.com/)! i lub you and missed you so much

John jolts awake at the sound of the front door slamming. He blinks, sliding back into focus. He must have fallen asleep on the couch, and it can’t have been too long ago, because it’s still dark outside. There are footsteps on the stairs as he checks his watch. 4:56 AM. He vaguely remembers heading home around eleven last night and thinking Sherlock wouldn’t be longer than an hour behind him, but he was clearly wrong about that. An extra hour would have been understandable, even, but  _ five _ ? He starts working himself up before he’s even entirely awake.

Sherlock walks through the front door and John stares, eyes still blurry from interrupted sleep. “S’five in the morning,” John states, tone accusatory.

“Why are you asleep on the couch?” Sherlock asks, gesturing at him in confusion. “We agreed to share the bed.” He starts taking off his coat and John notices that one of his arms is moving stiffly, staying close to his side. When the coat comes off, he catches a glimpse of a bandage through a tear in Sherlock’s sleeve.

John squints at him. “What did you do to your arm?”

Sherlock glances at his arm and shrugs. “I went with Lestrade to arrest the landlord. There was a bit of a scuffle involving a knife.”

John blinks at him. “What the fuck,” he says. “I thought you were just giving your statement.”

“Yes. Well.” Sherlock shuffles his feet, looking at the ground. “I suppose I didn’t tell you I have a tendency to apprehend the suspects myself.”

“You left that bit out, yeah. Jesus,” John sighs, shoving himself off the couch, “let me see your arm. Has anyone looked at it other than you?”

“Yes, Lestrade did.”

“What did he say about it?”

Sherlock hesitates. “Nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Sherlock hisses. “He said I should probably see a doctor.”

John takes a slow breath, doing his best to contain his temper with only a few hours of sleep under his belt. “And what do you find standing in front of you?”

“It’s not a big deal!” Sherlock insists, throwing his good arm up in frustration. “I’ve had much worse than this.”

“That doesn’t  _ actually _ sound reassuring - you do know that, don’t you?” John taunts. He takes a deep breath, dialing down the snark. “Listen. You sent me home, you stayed out until five in the morning, you didn’t return  _ any _ of my texts to let me know that you weren’t kidnapped or hurt - which, clearly, would have been a lie anyway. You’re my husband and you owe me.”

Sherlock huffs. “You said you were okay not coming with me.”

“Yes, when I thought you were just giving your statement, not running down a criminal!” John laughs, disbelieving. “It’s not the same, Sherlock. Let me look at your arm.”

Sherlock groans and drops himself haughtily onto the couch. “Fine,” he mutters, unbuttoning his shirt. John sits down on the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock slides his arm out of its sleeve and holds it out for John.

“Tell me you at least cleaned it out before you wrapped it,” John says hopefully. He unwinds the gauze, holding Sherlock’s arm gingerly.

“I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock pouts. .

“No, of course not,” John agrees. He lets the loose bandage and gauze fall to the floor and looks over the wound. It’s deeper than he’d like, but not bad enough that he should demand Sherlock go to urgent care. “Must have been a sharp knife,” he murmurs, admiring the clean edges of the cut.

“Yes, turns out murderers have nice knives.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed it.” John pats Sherlock’s arm and stands. “I’ll be right back; I need to grab my bag.”

He jogs to the bedroom and grabs his leather bag from its new sitting place in the back of their closet. He hasn’t had a reason to use it in ages - not since before he was deployed. He carries the bag back to the living room, settles on the coffee table again, and roots around inside it. He finds everything he needs and gestures for Sherlock to give his arm back.

Despite his lingering frustration at Sherlock for taking on a criminal pursuit without telling him - without  _ taking _ him - John feels himself relaxing and settling into his rightful position: fixing up overly-adventurous, action-first, stupidly selfless people. Sherlock watches as John pulls out wipes and slowly cleans up the cut, applying nearly no pressure as he washes away the blood. 

“That’s a lovely bag,” he murmurs, glancing down at it. “Very traditional.”

“Thank you,” John says. “It was a gift. Graduation from med school.”

“From your father?”

John glances up at Sherlock and back down quickly, humming in confirmation. 

“Was he the one who convinced you to go into the military?” Sherlock asks softly.

“No, that was my choice,” John says. “He’s always been a queen and country man, but… I don’t know. I didn’t go in because of patriotism. When I got out of Bart's I was young and wanted to help the world, but I didn’t want to sit around in an office all day, treating colds and cuts.”

“What about your mum?”

“Ah, she didn’t want me to enlist,” John mutters, wrapping a bandage around Sherlock’s arm tenderly.

“No, what was she like?” Sherlock clarifies.

“You don’t already know?”

“There’s nothing here as an indicator of her personality, save yourself.”

“And what do I say about her?”

Sherlock smiles softly. “She was compassionate and headstrong. Intelligent. I can tell where you got it from.”

John blushes, shrugging off the compliments. “She was a good woman.”

“When did she die?”

John swallows hard. He finishes wrapping the bandage, probably too tight, and clips it. “During my tour,” he murmurs, tossing everything back into his bag and snapping it shut. “I didn’t get to go to the funeral.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says, putting a hand on John’s knee, seemingly so he won’t walk away. “Truly, I am. I didn’t mean to say it like that, I just… I noticed you referring to her past-tense. I should have been more sensitive.”

John breathes slowly and blinks a few times. He nods. “It’s okay,” he says. He puts his hand over Sherlock’s. “Shame she couldn’t have met you. She would have liked you.”

“I suppose you get that from her as well,” Sherlock says, smiling.

John laughs softly and shakes his head. “What are your parents like, then?”

Sherlock shrugs, looking away. “Oh, you know. I turned out like this.”

“They must be pretty damn great, then,” John says. Sherlock blushes bright pink and John leans in to kiss him, squeezing his hand gently. He pulls back and smiles. “This is lovely, but it’s half six in the morning and you haven’t slept at all. Can we go to bed? We’re supposed to meet Doctor Stamford later today.”

“Is that today?” Sherlock mumbles, eyes still half-closed after the kiss.

John hums and picks up his bag; Sherlock’s hand slides off his leg as he stands. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the bedroom. Sherlock sighs and gets up to follow him, and John puts a hand on his back. “You haven’t slept properly in two days, have you?” he realises. 

“This is nothing,” Sherlock says. “I’ve gone days and days without sleeping.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“For cases,” he answers, shrugging. “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep, or eat, or focus on anything else while I’m working. It’s just how I am. I can’t think of anything else when I’m on a case.”

“It’s like a hyperfocus.”

“Precisely.”

“Are you - ?”

“Autistic?” Sherlock asks. “Yes.”

“Oh.” John cringes as soon as the simple exclamation leaves his mouth.  _ Oh _ _?_ Not exactly the appropriate response when someone reveals something very personal about themselves. Still, he doesn’t know how to respond otherwise. It’s sensitive. If he says the wrong thing he could push Sherlock away from him in an instant. He doesn’t feel any differently, other than honoured that Sherlock trusts him enough to confide in him like this, especially after the honeymoon, where Sherlock wouldn’t even  _ talk _ to him for fear of John not liking him. Is this why?

Sherlock seems unfazed by John’s response, or lack thereof. “They diagnosed me with Aspergers when that was still a thing,” he explains. He tosses off his shirt when they get to the bedroom and sits on the bed to take off his shoes. “I suppose now I’m just on the spectrum.”

“Right,” John murmurs, nodding. He changes into his pyjamas and walks over to what he presumes is his side of the bed - since Sherlock has already claimed his own - and climbs under the covers, still trying to think of how to properly respond.

Sherlock turns off the lamp and gets in as well, turning on his side to face John. “Did I go too far with the whole ‘revealing personal information’ bit?” he whispers.

“No,” John murmurs, staring at the ceiling. “No, of course not.”

“Okay.” A pause. “You just got kind of quiet after I told you.”

“I know,” John says. “I was just thinking - is that why you’re afraid I won’t like you if I get to know you?”

It’s quiet for a moment before Sherlock starts laughing softly. John frowns and looks over at him through the dark.

“No, John,” Sherlock says, a smile clear in his tone. “I’m afraid you won’t like me because I’m an ass, not because I’m autistic.”

John laughs. “Well, I’ll grant you that much. You did walk in at five in the morning, injured no less. It was pretty dickish.”

“And you still like me?”

John smiles, turning and shifting closer to Sherlock. “I still like you,” he promises. He leans in to kiss Sherlock but misses in the dark and catches his cheek instead. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s neck and adjusts, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s go to sleep, yeah?” John whispers.

“Okay,” Sherlock responds. John kisses him once more before they shift apart and he rolls onto his back. Sherlock stays on his side, facing John.

Awhile later, John hears Sherlock sniffle and whisper, “thank you,” and it briefly occurs to him that Sherlock was probably terrified to tell him that he’s autistic. 

He falls asleep before he can thank Sherlock in return for trusting him so much .

 

* * *

 

 

Tilting his head, John looks at himself in the mirror, pursing his lips. He can’t decide if he likes what he’s wearing - or rather, he thinks a moment later, whether or not  _ Sherlock _ will like what he’s wearing. He blushes when he realises he’s preening and decides to just put on a simple t-shirt to go with his jeans. He’s going to look awfully plain next to Sherlock, but he’s starting to get used to that.

“John! I forgot a towel!”

John groans. “I don’t know where the extras are!” he shouts back.

“Would you rather I come out and find them myself?”

John blushes. “ _ Fine,  _ give me a minute!”

He looks around the room at the myriad of boxes and throws his hands up in frustration. How does Sherlock have so much  _ stuff _ ?

He finds a box labelled “bathroom” and rips it open, sighing happily when he finds a stack of towels inside. He grabs them and goes to bring them to Sherlock, then pauses when he sees something in the bottom of the box. Setting the towels down, he reaches in and pulls out a few copies of  _ Soldier _ and  _ Gay Times _ magazines. John turns bright red and looks between the two. They really have no reason to be together, unless - 

“John! Did you get  _ lost _ _?”_

“No! No, I’m coming - bringing! I’m bringing them!” John stammers frantically, shoving the magazines back in the box and scooping up the towels. He hesitates at the bathroom door, then shyly opens it and asks, “Are you behind the curtain?”

“Yes, I am. You do realise we’re married now, right?”

John huffs and walks in, dropping the towels on the counter. “Yes, we’re married, but I haven’t…”

“Seen me naked?” Sherlock finishes, poking his head out. His usually bouncy curls are soaking wet and plastered to his forehead and neck. 

John smiles, overwhelmed by how cute he looks. “Ah, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. Sherlock gestures for the towel and John snaps out of it, handing it over. “Er, we’re meeting with Doctor Stamford to talk about how things are going this afternoon, so we can bring up the… intimacy issue.” 

Sherlock climbs out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and John blushes and looks away. “You think it’s been an issue?” Sherlock asks, frowning.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” John says. He slyly checks his hair in the mirror and winces; he really needs a haircut. And Christ, how didn’t he see that cowlick earlier? “I just meant - well, it hasn’t really.  _ Been _ . At all.”

“Intimacy is more than just sex,” Sherlock insists. He grabs another towel and starts drying his hair. “... Right?”

The inflection at the end throws John off for a moment. “ _ Right _ ,” he agrees. He shakes his head and grabs his hair product, leaning over the sink to fix the ridiculous cowlick. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just used to things moving a bit faster.”

“We did get married on the day we met,” Sherlock points out. He tosses his hair towel to the ground and grabs a very pricey-looking bottle of leave-in conditioner. “I know we didn’t jump right into bed but I would say we’re more fast-tracked than most.”

The doorbell rings and Sherlock looks down at his mostly naked body. 

“Yeah, I’ll get it,” John says, patting his hair down. He heads toward the door. “Hurry up, though, that’s probably Stamford.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “John,” he says abruptly. John stops in the doorway and looks back. “You look nice,” Sherlock tells him, smiling and turning pink.

John grins and ducks his head. “Get dressed, prat.”

Sherlock’s laugh reverberates through the room and John hears it even as he jogs down the hall to the stairs. He gets the door, out of breath, and finds a stout man standing on the doorstep. “Doctor Stamford?”

“Mike, please,” Stamford says, smiling and reaching out amiably. “Doctor Watson, I presume.”

“John,” he corrects, shaking Mike’s hand. “My, ah. Sherlock. Is upstairs. Come in, please.”

Mike steps in and a few men with cameras follow. John frowns - he’d forgotten for a moment that this is a nationwide social experiment and that their entire relationship is being watched by the same people who enjoy  _ Celebrity Love Island _ . It was a nice moment of delusion, that.

“We’re just going to sit you two down and do a short interview,” Mike explains, trudging up the stairs behind John, “and I’m going to give you a little ‘homework’ assignment. Nothing big, just something to help you two make some progress.”

“Oh, right,” John says, nodding. He has no idea what that means, but it’s better to just agree. He shows Mike and the camera crew into the living room.

“Where’s your other half?” Mike asks, smiling.

John’s heart flutters a bit at the sentiment. “He’s still getting ready, actually. Had a bit of a lie-in.”

Mike grins at him.

John blinks, then realises the implication. “No, not - we haven’t - ”

“It’s alright, John, you can tell me,” Mike promises, still looking stupidly giddy. “It’s why I’m here.”

“Really, we haven’t - Sherlock!” He calls, cutting himself off. “Doctor Stamford is here.”

“Be right there!” Sherlock hollers back. There’s a small crash, the bedroom door slams, and Sherlock hurries into the living room, slightly off kilter and barely just dressed. His shirt isn’t even tucked in all the way.

“Missed a bit there, love,” John points out.

Sherlock blushes brightly, fixing his shirt. “Love?” he asks softly.

“Oh, shit,” John mutters, covering his red face, “sorry, it just slipped out.”

“No, it’s - it’s nice,” Sherlock mumbles. They both look away, smiling softly.

“We need to put mic packs on both of you,” one of the crew members says. “Doctor Stamford, if you could sit in one of the armchairs, we’re going to run three different angles for this one.”

“Sure, sure,” Mike says. 

“John and - Sherlock, was it? - you two sit on the sofa, close as you like.”

They all get settled - wires, cameras, and people in place - and then they start. Mike pulls out a pocket notebook and smiles at them.

“It’s good to see you two,” he says. “It’s been two weeks now since you got married. How have you been getting on?”

John looks at Sherlock, who looks back at him, and they both grin. “Should I -?” John starts.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock agrees. 

John laughs. “Ah, we’ve been getting on - well, in my opinion, pretty great.”

“I’d concur,” Sherlock chimes in.

“You did seem to click right away,” Mike remembers. “So you’d say, emotionally, and personality-wise, you two are compatible.”

“We did just confirm that, yes,” Sherlock says.

John elbows him playfully. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice, I’m just answering the question honestly.”

“Right-o,” Mike says, shaking his head and smiling. “In terms of the bedroom, then, do you find that you’re compatible sexually?”

The abrupt transition shuts them both up.

“Like - like I told you, earlier, we haven’t - we haven’t,” John finishes awkwardly. Sherlock clamps his mouth tightly shut.

“So, nothing sexual at all?” Mike asks, completely unfazed.

“Ah, no.”

“Do you two communicate well, with regards to sex?”

John stammers a bit more. “It hasn’t really - well, not that it hasn’t - Sherlock, d’you want to, I don’t know, chip in?”

“No, no, I’m. Fine,” Sherlock mutters, shifting through varying shades of pink and red. 

_ So, no problem with being nearly naked next to me, but a single mention of sex _ ... “Ah, we haven’t really discussed it in depth, no,” John says. He’s unable to keep a hint of bitterness from his tone. It isn’t like he hasn’t  _ tried _ . Of course, he’s not the most eloquent about it, but Sherlock is the one who tried to divert the conversation last night by throwing John over a fence.

Mike nods and makes a few notes. “Something a lot of our couples struggle with is being open about sex, typically because they’ve only known their partners for a brief few weeks. Usually, fostering a discomfort surrounding intimacy can fracture the security of a relationship. I’m going to give you two a bit of homework for the evening, but before that I’d like to do a little exercise.

“I’d like you to face each other, and each say three things you’ve grown to like about the other. John, if you could start.”

“Uh, right,” John mutters, furrowing his brow and angling himself toward Sherlock. He realises he doesn’t even need to think about his answers. “I like that you’re a bit mad and mysterious,” he starts, his expression softening, “and that I can never guess what you’re going to do next. I like that you are… unbelievably dedicated, to your work, and to us. And I  _ love _ that you are unabashedly yourself,” he finishes, smiling proudly at Sherlock.

Sherlock gazes at him with a small smile, a bit teary-eyed, and takes a deep breath. “I like… that you’re stubborn. Possibly more than I am.” John chuckles quietly. “And I like how determined you are. Although, I suppose that’s quite close to being stubborn. And I like that… you don’t let me close you off.” His voice drops to a murmur. “You force me to work it out and communicate, but… nicely. So. Thank you, John.” 

“Thank you,” John whispers back. He leans in and kisses Sherlock, putting a hand on his cheek tenderly. They break apart and beam at each other.

“Lovely, boys,” Mike says, looking absolutely overjoyed. He glances over to the camera crew. “Do we need to do any re-takes?”

“Just a bit of audio enhancement at the end there,” one responds. “Otherwise, I think we’re set.”

“Fantastic. Just the homework, then. I’m going to give you two this bag - it’s full of little papers with questions on them. Take some time tonight or tomorrow to go through and ask each other the questions.” He stands and brings the bag over to them and Sherlock takes it, frowning at it. 

“Cameras off,” one of the crew members says.

“Alright, one more thing,” Mike says. “I know this is a reality show and a lot of people are in it for the drama, but I and the other doctors do actually want you to succeed. You don’t get a PhD in psychology and just go on to run a telly programme for no reason. I’m really glad to see you two getting on so well. If you have any questions or just want to chat, here’s my card.”

John takes it and smiles. “Thank you, Doctor Stamford - Mike.”

“You’re welcome. We have a lot of hope for you guys.”

“No pressure there,” Sherlock mutters. John snorts.

“We’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” Mike shakes both their hands, then heads out. The camera crew follows soon after, leaving them alone again.

John sighs heavily, slouching back into the couch. “I hate those interviews,” he mutters. “I always feel like I need to embellish.”

“You didn’t… lie about anything, did you?” Sherlock asks softly. “You really do think we’re getting on well?”

“Of course I do,” John promises. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s leg. “Honestly, this is probably the best relationship I’ve ever had. Certainly the weirdest, but… really wonderful.”

Sherlock smiles. “I suppose I’d have to say the same. Although, I don’t have much to go off of.”

“What do you mean?” John asks pleasantly.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” Sherlock admits, nearly whispering. “You’re my first.”

John sits up, furrowing his brow. “Never?”

“Never.”

“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“You’re never even been on a date?”

“Not a one,” Sherlock murmurs, blushing.

“Well, that settles it,” John says, patting Sherlock’s knee. “We’re saving this ridiculous question bag for tomorrow.”

“Thank god,” Sherlock mutters. He pauses. “Wait, why?”

“Because,” John says, beaming at him, “I’d like to take you on a date.”


	8. Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you love someone you know nearly nothing about? John and Sherlock, who met and married two weeks ago, do their best to kindle a romance with what little they know about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kdjghdfg okay i'm sorry for the chapter eight mishap! here it is for real! sorry for the long wait on this chapter! i was going to have another beta look at it but it didn't work out so here you go. c9 is almost finished now so it won't be long til the next installment.
> 
> big hugs and thank yous to lesley [vanetti](http://jolto.co.vu/) for beta-editing ! i lub u

Sherlock can feel his heart pounding in his chest, his ears, his throat, and his hand, which John is holding firmly.

 _Forelsket._ Sherlock remembers coming across the word when he first learned Norwegian, but he hadn’t needed it when communicating with the Norwegian _politi,_ so he’d promptly forgotten it. Now it’s resurfacing and tormenting him with every shaky beat of his heart. _Forelsket._ Starry-eyed infatuation.

It’s only a rough translation, but it’s no less true: he’s a goner.

When John had insisted they go on a proper date, Sherlock thought he’d meant they would go out for dinner, head home, and be done with it. Instead, John had dragged him out of the flat, led him down the block, and brought him to the Royal Academy of Music museum.

“Because you play the violin,” John had explained at the time, grinning. “And you composed our wedding waltz.”

Sherlock had been practically speechless, which John found hilarious. Sherlock couldn’t even work himself up to rebut - he was too blown away by the gesture. No one had ever done something so genuinely _thoughtful_ for him.

Now, Sherlock is leaning into his incredible husband while they wander through the museum, feeling ridiculously, stupidly _i forelsket._ He feels John squeeze his hand and he smiles. They’ve been wandering around the exhibit for at least twenty minutes now, with a long way to go, because John is letting him stop at every case to read the placards.

He stares at a _Guarneri_ for at least five minutes before John tugs on his arm. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock comes out of his head and looks at John. “Yes?”

John smiles. “You get lost up there, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, smiling back shyly.

“It’s okay,” John promises.

Sherlock blushes and lets John lead him to the next display. He feels dazed and giddy and nothing like himself; he hates how much he loves it. These feelings have always come from cases, from drugs - never from people. It’s horribly uncharacteristic. Strange. _Incredible_.

They wander across a _Stradivarius_. Sherlock’s eyes shine, jumping all over it, trying to take in every detail, but he can’t focus. He’s completely enraptured, but not with the instruments.

“It’s usually purposeful,” Sherlock says after a moment.

John looks up at him. “What?”

“Getting lost up there,” Sherlock explains, pointing at his head. “It’s usually purposeful, but sometimes I think myself off track.”

“Ah, right, what was it? The _mind palace?”_ John says, grinning.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock mutters, shoving him playfully. “It’s like a whole world up there.”

“I believe it,” John promises. “Do you have an eidetic memory, then? I meant to ask when you explained it the first time, but I was still a bit blown away.”

Sherlock puffs up a bit at the compliment. “I’m more of a savant mnemonist,” he says. “The mnemonic being the memory map. Not photographic, just exceptional.”

“How humble you are.”

“I pride myself on it.”

John grins at him and Sherlock breaks down into soft giggles. “So, is that why you’re going through all of these, like… systematically?” John asks.

“In a sense,” Sherlock agrees. “The history of the violin is also one of my special interests. Although, for _some_ reason I’m having trouble paying attention,” he intones, raising a brow at John.

John doesn’t seem to get the joke. He nods fervently, looking a little disquieted. Sherlock frowns and scans his face. It doesn’t make sense that mentioning his attraction to John would make him uncomfortable; it never has before. No, he looks the same way he did when Sherlock told him about his autism. Unsettled. Unsure.

“ _Right_ ,” John says. He looks at the violin in front of them half-heartedly. “Of course, that’s - yeah. Right.”

Sherlock huffs a small, awkward laugh. The rose-tinted bubble around his head pops and he tries not to feel upset at John’s apparent discomfort at the mention of Sherlock’s neurodivergence. “It’s not a big deal, John,” he insists.

“No, I know - I know.”

“You’re stammering and repeating yourself like you do when you think you have to act a certain way,” Sherlock points out.

John opens and shuts his mouth quickly. “That’s… probably right,” he admits reluctantly.

“You can tell me if you’re unnerved by my autism,” Sherlock mutters bitterly. He pulls his hand out of John’s grip and moves away, but John grabs him again quickly.

“I’m _not_ ,” John promises immediately, looking panicked. “Really, Sherlock, I’m not.”

Sherlock purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “You keep reacting like you’re… _perturbed_ , or something. You acted the same way when I told you the first time.”

John scoffs quietly. He’s starting to look exasperated and Sherlock feels like he needs to retract and avoid a meltdown. “I don’t know how you _want_ me to react,” John explains, “and I don’t know how to tell you that this doesn’t _matter_ to me.” They both wince and John sighs. “That’s not what I meant. Cor, I’m awful at this. What I’m trying to say is, I haven’t said anything about it because I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond. This hasn’t changed how I feel about you, Sherlock, but you have to remember we only met a few weeks ago. I know you can read me like a picture book, but I’m still piecing things together. _Should_ I feel differently about you? Do you want me to?”

Sherlock lets some of the tension out of his shoulders and looks down at the floor. Some part of him forgot that he and John just met. They’ve been getting on so well, fitting together so comfortably, that it feels like he’s never lived without John right there beside him. It’s ridiculous and irrational - the only moved in together the other day, and now he’s acting like John should have a full understanding of his every disordered logic-jump.

“I’m sorry, John,” he murmurs, still staring at the floor. “My reaction was… unfounded. And absurd.”

John twines their fingers together and says, “Hey. You’re not absurd.” He tips his head to the side so he can meet Sherlock’s downward gaze. “I think you’re incredible,” he whispers. “I have since I met you, and I don’t think it’s going to change.”

Blinking away unexpected tears, Sherlock meets John’s eyes. He looks completely sincere and sweet and so unbelievably kind. “Can I kiss you?” Sherlock asks.

John’s answering smile is blinding. He pulls Sherlock close and wraps an arm around his waist. “Go ahead, then,” he prompts softly.

Sherlock exhales shakily and kisses him, putting a hand on his cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs against John’s lips.

John kisses him a second time before pulling away. “Do you want to finish out the exhibit before we go home?”

His eyes are soft and warm and Sherlock gets lost in them. “Alright,” he responds, dazed.

“Alright,” John echoes. He takes Sherlock by the hand again and resumes leading him around the room.

Sherlock doesn’t learn anything else during the rest of the date. He has a feeling that, when John is in the room, he isn’t going to be able to think about anything else. Compared to him, it’s all utterly uninspiring, anyway.

* * *

 

Frowning, Sherlock tosses a little felt bag in the air, reclining along the length of the couch. He sighs and catches it, then leans over the coffee table to peer into the kitchen. “Are you done yet?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, just a mo’,” John huffs. A cabinet slams shut and John walks out a second later with a wine glass in each hand and the bottle in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock sits up and takes a glass from him, sniffing it discriminately. It smells decent, and he silently approves of John’s choice by taking a sip. “You have that bag?” John asks, setting the bottle on the table.

Sherlock hums and holds it up. “Locked and loaded,” he says. He tosses it to John and leans back, crossing his legs.

John plops down on the couch next to him, wine sloshing in its glass. “How do you want to do this?” he asks, staring at the bag.

“It should have come with instructions,” Sherlock complains. “What kind of ‘homework’ doesn’t have instructions?”

“Stay focused,” John says, pointing an accusatory finger. “Should we take turns?”

“I suppose. Do we both answer the question, or just the recipient?”

John purses his lips. “I think both.”

Sherlock takes another sip of his wine and grabs the bag back from John. He pulls out a little slip of paper. “Alright, first one: do you believe everything happens for a reason?”

“God, that’s cheesy,” John murmurs, frowning. “Er, I guess not, no.”

“No?”

“No,” John repeats, shaking his head. “I think life just throws shit at you and you’ve got to deal with it as it comes.”

“And here I was thinking you were a romantic,” Sherlock snorts.

John laughs. “What about you, then? You believe in fate?”

“Not in fate, per se,” Sherlock explains. “I don’t, however, believe in coincidence. If the universe is as vast and as complicated as people seem to say it is, I don’t think anything happens by chance.”

“That’s… not as poetic as I was expecting.”

“I’m not a poetic person.”

“You kind of are,” John says, smiling. “In your own weird, clinical way.”

“Hush, you,” Sherlock mutters. “Pick the next one.”

John takes the bag back. “Oh, another easy one. Do you, or did you, have any bad habits?”

Sherlock hesitates. He works his jaw; _how_ honest is he supposed to be? How far is he supposed to go? Is it better to go all out and hope for the best, or just hint at the bigger picture and gauge John’s response? He was good about the neurodivergence thing, but this is another field entirely.

“I used to smoke,” he says. _Start with the strong points._ “I don’t, now. Nicotine patches.”

“That’s good,” John says, smiling.

Sherlock nods. He takes a deep breath. “I… for awhile, I - I had a drug problem.”

John’s eyebrows fly up and the smile disappears. “A drug problem?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers. He feels shaky - aside from Mycroft and Lestrade, nearly no one knows about his past addiction. He swallows the rest of his wine, then refills his glass. “Cocaine, mostly. Morphine and heroin, sometimes. I’m clean. Five years.”

“Wow,” John mutters, looking into his glass. “Christ, Sherlock, that’s… a lot.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispers. He feels his eyes watering. “I’m sorry.”

“No! Thank you,” John blurts out, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you for trusting me.” He pauses. “I used to have a gambling problem. And I’m a bit addicted to danger. Most of the reason I went with you on that case is because I thought we would be tossed out or arrested or something. I sort of have a history of doing stupid things to get my kicks.”

Sherlock smiles at him. “We’re both a bit fucked up, aren’t we?”

John looks utterly bewildered. “Did you just say ‘fuck’?”

“Of course I did. I’m not a prude, John.”

“I don’t think you’ve said that once in the three weeks we’ve known each other,” John maintains.

“Just - give me that,” he mutters, snatching the bag from John. He grabs another slip of paper, blushes when he reads it, and crumples it up. _And here I thought this_ **_wasn’t_ ** _going to be mortifying._  “Nevermind, go back to making fun of me.”

John grins. “We made rules, you have to read it.”

“The rules didn’t specify that we had to read what we chose.”

“I’m writing an addendum. Go on, I won’t tease you anymore.”

Sherlock groans, downs his wine again, and smoothes out the paper. John raises a brow at him. He takes a deep breath, already wanting to crawl under the couch from embarrassment. “Is our relationship… _physical_ enough for you?”

John’s lips twitch into a small smile. “You did say you weren’t a prude, didn’t you?”

“ _You_ said you wouldn’t tease me anymore.”

“ _Sorry_ \- sorry,” John says, grinning and rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah… yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

John blushes and shrugs. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to _more_ , but I don’t want to pressure you into anything. We just met.”

“We’re _married_.”

“And we met on our wedding day,” John counters. “Why are you arguing, Sherlock? When Doctor Stamford asked about our sex life you went barmy, you wouldn’t say anything. I figured you didn’t want any more than this.”

“I… don’t _know_ ,” Sherlock admits. “I don’t have any experience here. Should I know what I want without having ever had it?” He sighs and sets his empty glass on the table and runs a hand through his hair. If he’s being honest with himself, and with John, he’s positive that some part of him _does_ want more. He wouldn’t deny feeling - Interested? Aroused? Where’s the border? - when he’s kissing John, or when he wakes up pressed head to foot against him. He just doesn’t know _what_ he wants yet. He’s still adjusting to sharing a bed with someone - how is he supposed to know if he wants John to fuck him?

“It just sort of depends on the person,” John says, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just known for so long that I can’t remember when I didn’t. But, that doesn’t mean you have to do something, or anything, before you’re ready. And if you decide that you think you’re ready, you can tell me.” He puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeezes, and Sherlock feels his face heat up.

He nods and hands the bag over to John. “Go ahead,” he says, hoping John can hear the ‘thank you’ in his voice.

John smiles and takes out a slip of paper. “Alright,” he murmurs. He takes a deep breath. “What did you think when you first saw me?”

Sherlock resists the urge to groan. Couldn’t they go back to answering the easy ones?  “Erm,” he murmurs, ducking his head. He has to muster up everything in him to be honest, after the last one. “I thought… you were beautiful.” He can feel his cheeks flush and he looks away when the heat makes him tear up.

“I thought you were beautiful, too,” John whispers after a beat. Sherlock turns back to him, eyes cloudy.

Before he can stop himself he’s kissing John, who kisses back immediately. It’s not frenzied or needy or intense in any way, but it’s _more_ than any of the times they’ve kissed before. It’s warm and reverent and promising; he can feel John’s hand move from his knee to his thigh and he shivers. John sucks Sherlock’s lip and Sherlock whines into his mouth, curling his fingers into John’s shirt. He leans back and John goes with; he starts to climb over Sherlock, then pauses, breathing heavily.

“I’m getting some mixed signals,” he admits, half-smiling. “Do you - is this you being ready to try… something?”

Sherlock glances down and sees John half-settled between his legs, clearly aroused, and his self-awareness comes slamming back into him like a meteorite. He feels like an idiot. A tease, definitely. God, why isn’t this easier? “I don’t know,” he whispers.

John laughs. His understanding surrounding sex as a whole is frustrating to Sherlock - how much experience does he _have?_

“Um, should I - ?” John stammers, starting to crawl off of Sherlock.

“Here,” Sherlock murmurs, shifting around. He tugs John up to lie next to him and John slots himself in between Sherlock and the couch, gently resting a hand on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock can feel John’s flagging erection against his hip and his stomach turns, but he can’t decide if it’s pleasant or terrifying.

“Hi,” John whispers. He brushes his nose against Sherlock’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers.

“What? Why?” John asks, frowning.

“I think I’ve started to confuse even myself.”

John wriggles his arm free and cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to figure everything out in one night. I know this ridiculous homework was supposed to help us, but sometimes relationships are a long process. A confusing process. And before you ask: yes. I want to go through it all with you.”

Sherlock smiles, feeling unbelievably relieved. He can feel his heart in his ears. “Thank you, John.”

John beams and kisses him softly. “I think we should go to bed.”

“Okay,” Sherlock agrees. He kisses John again, then sits up and slides his legs off the couch. John leans against his back and kisses his head.

“You alright?”

Sherlock nods and takes John’s hand. “It was a long day. A good day.”

John chuckles and takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling him up as he clambers off the sofa. He follows John in a daze. John looks back at him and smiles; his eyes are wrinkled around the edges and his chapped lips are twisted into a wry smile.

The thought suddenly filling Sherlock’s head, echoing loudly and clearly, is bright and terrifying: _I am in love with you_.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock realises he’s staring, probably looking somewhat horrified. “I’m… fine,” he mutters.

John shakes his head, chuckling softly, and lugs Sherlock along to the bedroom. Sherlock goes through the motions of getting ready for bed and eventually hides under the covers next to his husband, overwhelmed and astounded.

It’s suddenly extremely clear how _easy_ it is to want something he’s never had before. He curls up to John and watches him fall asleep, wanting John to fall in love with him more than he’s ever wanted anything else.

  



	9. Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock, the couple that married at first sight, must learn to cope with the conflicts arising in their relationship. Is their marriage strong enough to withstand these tests?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forever hugs and thank yous to beth [withoutawish](http://withoutawish.tumblr.com/), one of my very favorite people !!!, for beta editing for me <3

John pulls up the collar of his coat to shield his ears from the cold bursts of wind as people and trains fly by in blurs of colour. He sighs when another load of passengers disembark and crowd around him, forcing him against the wall. This would be his third shopping trip of the week, which - like the other two - was completely fruitless. He’s a day closer to Christmas with nothing to show for it, and absolutely no idea how to choose a gift for Sherlock.

It’d never occurred to him how bloody _lucky_ he was to be in Afghanistan for the last two Christmases. He didn’t need to do any decorating, and he definitely didn’t need to get any gifts - especially not one for his husband, who he’s only known a month now. Every time he tries to seriously think about his options, he blanks. The worst part is that he _knows_ what Sherlock likes, he just hasn’t a clue how to put those things into gift form. _Chemistry? The history of the violin?_ Gift-giving is an art that he’s completely lost on.

The Jubilee Line finally pulls up and John grumbles and pushes his way through the crowd to clamber on. The cold weather is bringing back the ache in his leg and his shoulder and he’s considering grabbing the lone empty seat he can see when he notices who’s sitting next to the spot. She notices him staring at the same time.

 _“John?”_ Mary laughs, incredulous.

“Oh, wow,” John says, blinking a few times. _That’s… awkward._ He hasn’t seen her since they broke up before his tour, and he didn’t bother calling when he got back. And then he got married. The tube isn’t his ideal reunion spot, considering.

She ushers him over and John grimaces, trying to decide between enduring physical pain or social interaction. His shoulder twinges and he decides that holding onto the bar isn’t going to happen. He awkwardly shuffles over toward his ex-fiancée and takes the seat next to her.

“God, it’s been ages,” Mary says, smiling. “You look... different.”

“You can say I look old,” John tells her. “I know I do.”

She rolls her eyes. “Always your worst critic. You look fine. When did you get _back?”_

“About nine months ago. Maybe longer. The time in the hospital was a bit fuzzy.”

“It’s true you got shot, then?” Mary asks, cringing. “Sorry. Harriet told me.”

John nods, pressing his lips into a thin line. “It’s alright. I’ve gotten things worked out pretty well, since then.” His hands come together and he absently twists his wedding band, smiling half-heartedly.

Mary notices and glances down at his hand. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Hang on - did you get married?”

John freezes. _God, why did I sit down?_ “Right. Yeah. Cor, that’s - sorry, that’s a bit… uncomfortable.” He feels his face heat up and he sits back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“A bit, yeah,” Mary says, quirking a brow, “considering you told me you weren’t ready to get married.”

“It was two years ago, and I just joined the military,” John huffs. He silently reprimands himself, though - he could at least be nice about it. He did dump her unexpectedly a few days before he was deployed, and he didn’t speak to her at all after that. “Sorry,” he adds, sighing. “I know it looks bad. It’s just… a very weird situation.”

Mary snorts. “What, did she trick you into it?”

“Not exactly. Although, it was a set-up of sorts. I married him on a reality telly show.”

They both go silent and Mary stares at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t tell me you went on _The Bachelor_ and I missed it,” she says, deadpan.

John grins. “Not quite.”

“Oh my god, you’re serious,” she realizes. “What’s his name? What is he like?”

John blinks, confused. “You’re not upset?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

“It was two years ago, John,” Mary says, smiling. “I moved on and got married a year ago.”

“Ouch,” John murmurs. “What’s his name?”

“David,” Mary says. “Okay, trade. What’s _his_ name?”

John smiles. “Sherlock.”

“What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Oi,” John berates, feeling defensive, “I like it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mary says, holding her hands up defensively and grinning. “Hey, what are you doing later? David has an overnight shift and I want to catch up.”

“Er, I don’t know,” John says. He knows Sherlock is going to be home tonight and it almost feels wrong to spend time with someone else, now. They haven’t interacted with anyone aside from officers at Scotland Yard since they got back from their honeymoon and it’s like he doesn’t know how to anymore.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Mary insists. “I want to know about this Sherlock bloke.”

The train starts slowing down at the Baker Street stop and John panickedly answers, “Okay - er, wait, where should I meet you?”

“Three Tuns?” Mary suggests. “Eight-ish?”

John has no idea what or where that is. “Sounds good,” he lies, trying to hide his stress behind a smile. He stands to leave when the doors open and awkwardly waves at Mary when he gets off the train.

_Well, fuck._

He half-limps home from the station, trying to figure out a way to get out of his plans, before he realizes he doesn’t even have Mary’s number to tell her he’s cancelling. He doesn’t feel like enough of an arse to just not show up, especially if he might see her on the tube again after this.

“What a fucking disaster,” he mutters, trudging up the stairs to the flat. He wanders into the empty sitting room and tosses his coat over the arm of the sofa. “Sherlock?” he calls.

“Kitchen,” Sherlock says. John saunters over and leans against the doorframe. Sherlock has occupied himself with _something_. It’s pink and possibly used to be alive, but John isn’t going to ask - the last time it turned out to be congealed cow’s blood, and he’s not willing to find out just now. “You were out awhile,” Sherlock notes, glancing up from his bunsen burner.

John squints at his experiment. “Ah, yeah. I ran into an old friend.”

Sherlock raises a brow. “Was it one of those men from the wedding?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. It was…” He hesitates, wondering how Sherlock would react to the truth. He sighs. “It was my ex-fiancée.”

Sherlock finally looks up at him, shocked. “You were engaged?” he asks quietly.

His tone is jarring - almost _hurt_. So much so that John feels culpable for his actions from before he even knew Sherlock. “For awhile,” he says, crossing his arms and shrugging. “I broke up with her a few days before I started my tour. I didn’t think it was a good idea - ”

“You were engaged to a _woman?”_ Sherlock interrupts, sputtering. He looks John up and down, his face scrunched up and bewildered. “How didn’t I see that?”

The guilt dissipates briefly and John smirks. “Someone’s been going against his own practise and leaping to conclusions,” he teases.

Sherlock scowls, going back to up his test tube. “Shut up,” he mutters. “I take it she invited you to dinner?”

“Drinks, actually,” John corrects. His guilt crowds back in. “Would you mind if I went? To catch up?”

Shrugging, Sherlock sets his test tube on a rack, and picks up another one. “If you’d like,” he says. “Do you want to watch a movie when you get back?”

“You don’t mind?” John asks.

“Considering I’m the one who suggested it, I’d have to say not.”

“Not the movie, git,” John says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t mind that I’m going out with her?”

Sherlock’s lip twitches. “Well, when you put it that way.”

John cringes. “That’s not what I meant. I just… When I’ve told people that I’m bisexual in the past, they assumed the worst.”

“What’s the worst?”

“That I’d cheat on them.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. He looks at John, his expression repentant like he’s sorry for all the people John has been with before. “That’s not who you are.”

He says it with such conviction; he says it like he knows for a fact exactly who John is, despite just meeting him. The amount of trust he has makes John beam, feeling a rush of relief. He has to will himself to keep his eyes dry. He isn’t sure he can recall anyone other than Sherlock who’s reacted so _kindly_ \- trusting John instead of immediately being taken in by stereotypes. It feels like his heart is overflowing. He has no idea how he ended up with someone so _good_.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He doesn’t know how else to respond, so he takes a shaky breath and smiles again. “How about Ghostbusters, tonight?” he suggests. After the way Sherlock responded to Star Wars, John intends to show him every fantasy and sci-fi classic he can think of.  

“Sounds awful already,” Sherlock says, smiling.

John walks around the table and puts an arm around Sherlock’s waist. He kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Oh, don’t be so mawkish,” Sherlock huffs, blushing brightly and leaning into him.

John grins. “You’re one to talk,” he says

Sherlock nudges him and knocks their heads together gently, and, in response, John kisses the corner of his mouth, rubbing the small of Sherlock’s back with his thumb. Sherlock hums and tilts his head to kiss John properly. The tip of his tongue grazes John’s lip and John takes it as a blessing and presses his own tongue forward. He shifts closer and Sherlock makes a soft, pleased noise that makes John’s whole body buzz. His hand drifts down to Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock moves closer -

The test tube Sherlock had been heating promptly explodes and they both jump. “ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock yelps, hurriedly turning off the bunsen burner.

“ _Jesus_ , are you okay?” John hisses.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock groans, tossing the test tube clamp onto the table. “It wasn’t toxic.”

“Always a silver lining.” John grabs Sherlock’s hands and checks them over, then looks over his face. “I don’t think you’re bleeding anywhere. Lucky break.”

“Yes, lucky,” Sherlock sighs. He looks almost… disappointed.

John frowns and scans his face. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Was this for a case?”

“No, I was just… occupying myself.” Sherlock gently takes his hands back and goes to clean up his mess.

John purses his lips. “Do you need help cleaning up?”

Sherlock pulls on a pair of safety gloves. “I’ll get it,” he murmurs. He kneels down and starts picking up the glass, and John feels guilty. He doesn’t even know _why_ \- Sherlock said he was okay with John going out tonight. Was he lying? Is he just upset about the experiment?

John doesn’t know what to do, so he shuffles his feet. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock insists. “What time are you meeting your friend?”

“Around eight,” John mutters. He glances at his watch. It’s half six now and he’s got to figure out how to get to the pub, too, so he ought to start getting ready. “I guess I’ll go… shower. Er, if you need me I’ll be - yeah. I’ll go shower.”

He watches Sherlock clean for another few seconds. “Yeah,” he murmurs again, walking out of the room. He heads to the bathroom and shuts the door, totally confused. They were doing fine - they’ve been doing fine for _weeks_. He never took Sherlock as the jealous type.

He might _not_ be the jealous type. He said the experiment didn’t bother him either. What else could have turned his mood around like that? They kissed. He tried to feel Sherlock up a bit. Could that have been it?

John groans and rubs his eyes. After they made out on the couch two weeks ago they’d been edging around actually talking about sex again. John can’t count the amount of wanking and cold-showering he’s done since then. He wants to bang his head against the doorframe - why did he think that would be _okay_ without asking?

Sighing, he turns on the shower and strips down. He’ll give Sherlock time to cool down and apologize later on. Maybe it’s lucky Mary invited him out; he could use a drink.

 

 

* * *

 

John throws back a shot of whiskey and winces, slamming the glass back on the table. “God, that’s _awful_ ,” he coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You always preferred beer,” Mary says, smiling. She downs her tequila and bites down on a slice of lime. Blinking a few times, she clears her throat. “So, why the hard alcohol, then?” she asks, raising a brow. “I happen to remember one of the last times you got plastered was right before you told me you were being deployed.”

“It’s just been a long day,” John sighs, running a hand through his hair. He catches the bartender’s eye and raises his glass in request. “It’s been a month of long days.”

“Bit of a rocky start?”

“Can’t expect much else from an arranged marriage.” He takes his drink from the bartender and sips it instead of knocking it back. “I like him - I really do. It’s just… You know the beginning of a relationship, how everything is shimmery and new and exciting? It’s like we haven’t gotten to have that yet, because we’re in the _pre-_ relationship phase; the one where you met at a bar or the store and you’re still learning about their life and personality. Except we’re married, and we’re supposed to get from pre-relationship to old married couple in a month and a half.” He stares into his drink and scowl. “I knew what I was signing on for, but sometimes it’s too much.”

“So we drink,” Mary says. She takes another shot and nudges John to do the same. He sighs, shrugs, and follows suit. Drinking feels better than stressing over his personal problems, and it makes this entire situation less awkward. “But you two are getting on well, right?” Mary asks “You seemed pretty happy earlier.”

“We are,” John admits. He half-smiles. “He’s… wild. Absolutely mad.”

“Mm, sounds like a perfect fit,” Mary snorts. “Mad how?”

“Uh, he’s a detective,” John starts. His smile grows. “Solves murders for a living. Chases them for fun. He’s a graduate chemist with a near-photographic memory. Doesn’t really give a toss about his own safety. Oh, and he plays the violin. He composed our wedding waltz, actually.”

“Jesus,” Mary mutters, “I thought people like that only existed in movies and government agencies.”

“Gets even better,” John says. He tosses back another drink when the bartender brings it by. “He’s bloody gorgeous, too. Curly hair, really lanky, the bone structure of a fucking god, and his _eyes_. Fucking un-be-lievable.”

Mary grins. “So the sex is good?”

John blanches. So much for the drink keeping the stress at bay.

“Oh, _please_ tell me you guys have had sex,” Mary says, gawping at him. “How the hell else are you supposed to know you can stay together after - what, two more _weeks?”_

The bartender walks over again and John waves him away, feeling a bit queasy. “He’s amazing. I love who he is as a person. I love - I think I love _him_.” He blushes bright red and rubs his face. “I haven’t really thought about it until now, but everything that’s happened since we got married, any little hiccup or fight, we’ve talked through it, and you know - you know I’m not good at that stuff.”

“I know,” Mary agrees, tossing back another shot.

“You know,” John repeats. “But with him, I feel like I can make anything work. And I want to be with him after all this. I do because I love him, and then I wonder what it would be like if we found out after we decided to stay together that the sex is _awful_.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“I’ve tried,” John sighs, “but it makes him nervous. And I think I cocked up my chances today.”

“That’s why the whiskey,” Mary states.

“That’s why the whiskey,” John agrees.

“What did you do?”

“After I mentioned I was going out for drinks with you tonight we talked for a bit and then I kissed him. And then I kissed him more. And then I groped his arse and a test tube exploded and he got short with me.”

“Why did - ”

“Graduate chemist.”

“Right,” Mary remembers. “So then, did he get short with you after you groped him, or after the test tube blew up?”

John furrows his brow. “Er, I guess after the test tube?”

“Did he try to shove you away when you made out with him?”

“No.”

“Did he try to shove you away when you touched him?”

“No,” John says. He realises where she’s going with her train of thought and _oh, Christ_.

“He was angry that a test tube exploded and interrupted, you _dolt_ ,” Mary exclaims. “ _Seriously?”_

“Oh my god, I’m an idiot,” John groans, putting his head in his hands.

“And then you walked away and came here!”

“I wasn’t thinking he _wanted_ to have sex,” John huffs. “The last time I even came close to touching him he said he was confused and we went to sleep.”

“Wait, why did he get confused?”

“He didn’t know whether or not he wanted to have sex!”

“Oh, you’re _both_ a mess. What a perfect match.”

“Shove off,” John mutters. “God, how am I supposed to apologize now? I thought he was pissed because I was pushing the boundaries, not because I wasn’t pushing them _enough_.”

Mary gets off her stool and pulls John off his. “Get your plastered arse home and give him what he wants,” she tells him. “You want it, he wants it - stop speculating about whether or not you want to spend the rest of your life with him and go find out for sure.”

John stares at her, pursing his lips. He nods decidedly. “Alright. Fuck. Alright. Thank you,” he says. He digs out his wallet and puts cash and a tip on the counter. He smiles at Mary. “Thank you. It was good to see you.”

“You, too,” Mary says, smiling. “Now fucking _go_.”

John nods again and heads out of the pub to catch the train.

The entire way home he second guesses himself; Mary has never met Sherlock. She doesn’t know him like John does. What if they got it wrong? What if he’s about to go home and make a fool of himself?

When the train pulls up to the Baker Street stop, he steels himself and marches to the flat, absolutely not stumbling or leaning on lamp posts along the way. He just needs to go in and get it over with, whether the response is positive or not.

The living room is dark when John gets inside. He glances at his watch and frowns - it’s barely past ten.

“Sherlock?” he calls softly. There’s no response. The kitchen lights are off, too. He wanders down to the bedroom and slowly opens the door so it doesn’t creak. He sees the outline of Sherlock, curled up under the covers, and sighs softly. All of his determination dissipates and it feels like he sobers up immediately. He closes the door behind him and sits on the edge of the bed. Sherlock’s hair is a mess, just like it is every morning; sticking up in all directions, little bits plastered to his forehead and cheek. John brushes it away. Sherlock makes soft noises and twitches, pushing his face into his pillow.

“Fuck,” John murmurs, smiling. He rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Sherlock sighs softly, curling up tighter. “Love you,” he breathes.

John’s eyes widen and it feels like his heart stops. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock falls back asleep and John’s heart starts back up again, pounding so hard that his entire chest shakes.

“Jesus,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “You’re going to kill me.”


	10. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock, who married as strangers just over a month ago, celebrate Christmas together - hopefully the first of many to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit we're coming down to the wire !! there's only one ~real~ chapter left, and then the epilogue!
> 
> always thank-yous to my incredible friends emrys [euterpeschild](http://euterpeschild.tumblr.com/) and rachel [thatonewritergirl](http://thatonewritergirl.tumblr.com/) for betaing and editing for me!

“Which jumper should I wear?”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at the two jumpers John is holding up for him to see. He furrows his brow. “The maroon one,” he decides, going back to sorting through his shirts. “Green doesn’t suit you.”

John raises his brows. “Duly noted,” he says, tossing the green jumper on the bed. He strips off his pyjama shirt and Sherlock turns his head away, glancing at John’s chest from the corner of his eye.

They’ve entered a weird grey area in their relationship that Sherlock can’t put a name to. They eat every meal together, but they never quite know what to talk about. They’ve taken cases in the past few weeks, but Sherlock still has to justify all of his actions to John. They change and dress in the same room, they snog on the couch and sometimes even in bed, but they still haven’t had sex.

He doesn’t know how to address it. John clearly doesn’t know what to say either, despite all his alleged sexual prowess; they make out, get half-hard, John asks if he’s okay, and they awkwardly talk around the issue until it’s time to sleep. Sherlock thinks it might actually be driving him mad. His focus is all over the place—in the middle of the last case he was so preoccupied with the way John licks his lips that he completely missed the murderer’s calling card.

It’s getting to the point that he wants to have sex with John just to take his mind off of it, but something tells him that might make him even more obsessed.

“How long do you think they’re going to be here?” John asks, pulling on his jeans.

Sherlock shrugs. “I can’t imagine it’ll take longer than a few hours,” he says.

He eyes his shirts with scrutiny. The black is too somber for Christmas and the white is too… _virgin_. He flushes; his mind has been on a single track for too long. He’ll go with the forest green. It’ll complement John’s jumper. Hopefully none of the cameramen comment on their Christmas colours.

John sighs. “I understand they profit off exploiting our personal life, but if they could _just_ give us the holiday alone.”

“What could be more exploitative than nationally broadcasting a couple’s first Christmas together?” Sherlock asks, raising a brow. He hears John chuckle softly and turns around to frown at him. “What’s funny?”

John smiles. “It’s stupid,” he says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, doing up the buttons of his shirt. “I wouldn’t doubt it, since your sense of humor includes videos of cats getting scared by their own reflections, but I digress—what’s funny?”

“Shut up,” John says, grinning. “I was just thinking about what you said. Us. A couple.” He blushes and shrugs, looking down at the floor. “I don’t know, I forget sometimes that we haven’t always been a ‘we.’ It just feels… natural.” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid,” he repeats.

Sherlock’s hands pause in the middle of buttoning and he smiles at John, unable to look away from his bashful expression. He can feel the three words on the back of his tongue and he swallows hard to push them back. “I feel the same way,” Sherlock says instead.

John looks up at him brightly. He strides over and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth softly. Sherlock directs it into a proper kiss, nibbling at John’s lip. John nips back and grins into the kiss, doing up the rest of Sherlock’s shirt. He goes to pull away and Sherlock puts his arms around his waist, pulling him back in. It’s Christmas and they’re alone for at least the next half hour, if not more. He can’t think of better timing.

“We need to finish getting ready,” John admonishes playfully, kissing Sherlock’s jaw.

“Mm, it can wait,” Sherlock murmurs, chasing his lips. John’s arms wrap around his neck and Sherlock sighs happily, having coaxed John back into the kiss. They press closer together, lips parting and tongues sneaking into each others’ mouths. Sherlock pulls John in by his hips and grinds against him timidly. John pulls away from the kiss, startled. Sherlock opens his eyes and frowns.

“Now?” John asks, glancing from Sherlock’s lips to his eyes.

“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock murmurs. He leans in to resume kissing his husband but John pulls away.

“Are you sure?” he insists.

Sherlock huffs frustratedly, leaning back. “Well, I _was_ ,” he grumbles. He drops his hands from John’s waist and crosses his arms. _So much for_ **_that_** _._ “Nevermind, I suppose.”

John grimaces. “I’m sorry,” he says, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I am, I just—I don’t want you to… to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“Well, seeing as I was the one who initiated it, I don’t think that’s something you needed to be concerned about,” Sherlock says.

John sighs. “I know. I’m sorry, I—it’s not you,” he admits. “Not this time, anyway.”

“How reassuring,” Sherlock deadpans.

“I’m sorry,” John repeats. “I just keep thinking about… God, this is going to make me sound like an arse.” He shakes his head, clearly gearing himself up for something. Sherlock squints, trying to figure out the problem. “I keep thinking about how this is your first time. Your _first_ first time.”

Sherlock blushes brightly and resists the urge to shove John’s hand off his arm. “What, and you’ve never slept with a virgin before?” he scoffs. He’s sure his embarrassment shows all over his face. Is this why John asks if he’s alright every time they get close to doing something? Does he think Sherlock is _fragile_?

“That’s not it,” John promises hurriedly. He takes his hand back to rub his neck, looking down at the floor. “Christ, it’s so sappy,” he groans. “I want it to be… _special_. I want to make it special for you, and I can’t do that if we’re rushing to get our rocks off before a camera crew shows up to broadcast our post-orgasmic haze nationwide.”

Sherlock blinks. He’d spent the past two weeks assuming that John was treating him like a child for being so inexperienced—he didn’t think that John was avoiding sleeping with him because he wanted the timing to be right.

“Okay,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling when he smiles.

John glances up from the floor. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He puts his hands back on John’s waist. “I didn’t realise how important it was to you.”

John shrugs, resting his hands on Sherlock’s arms. “It means something, y’know?” he says, gazing up at Sherlock lovingly. “It’s something that you’ll remember probably for the rest of your life. I don’t want it to be awful, especially if we’re going to stay together after all of this.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters so quickly it feels like he’s choking. He holds back hopeful tears. “Are we?” he asks.

“Do you want to?” John asks, cheeks pink.

Sherlock’s eager _‘yes, yes, god yes’_ is cut off preemptively by Mrs. Hudson shouting at them from the foyer, “Boys! Those cameramen are here, should I let them up?”

John sighs. “Go ahead, Mrs. H,” he shouts back.

They let go of each other and look away awkwardly. Sherlock shuffles his feet, trying to decide whether or not he should continue the conversation.

John decides for him. “We should, ah, go out there,” he says, nodding toward the door. He steps back and turns to head out, then glances back at Sherlock. “Also, um—what I’m going to give you in front of them isn’t your gift. Well, it is, but it’s not your only gift.” He grins and slips out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone.

“Shit,” Sherlock murmurs, rubbing his eyes. He’s all overwhelmed with feelings now and he’s expected to go out and put on his best face for the camera crew. It sounds exhausting, and then god knows they’re probably going to have to do dinner with Mrs. Hudson or something else that involves far more social interaction than he’s prepared to engage in today.

He sighs heavily and walks over to the wardrobe. He digs out John’s gift, a set of business cards that read _John Watson, Investigative Medical Consultant_. It’s too late to change anything now, but he’s starting to feel more confident about his decision. When he ordered them he thought it might have been presumptuous of him, assuming both that John would stay married to him _and_ that they would continue to work together, but now…

Well, now he has enough evidence that he might not be presuming.

He nods decisively, pocketing the gift box. Game face. At least at the end of this, he’ll know whether or not John is planning on staying married, too.

* * *

 

Sherlock drops into his chair with a dramatic sigh at the same time John shuts the front door and groans loudly as he leans against it.

“God, it felt like that would never _end_ ,” John grumbles, letting his head fall back against the door.

“Did they have to film us giving each other the gifts five times?” Sherlock asks. He runs his hands through his hair wildly. Giving John the gift over and over again gave him far too much time to overthink it. The initial response seemed positive after he explained. And then he seemed overwhelmed. And then resigned. And then… nothing. Sherlock couldn’t get a read on the last two, which gave him far too much anxiety, to the point that he couldn’t even react properly when he opened John’s gift to him—a book on the social history of the violin, which in any other scenario he would devour.

He’s too distracted. He hates how much this is eating away at him. They’ve only got a few more days before they have to decide whether or not they’re going to stay married, and whether or not he’s heartbroken after New Year’s, he’ll at least be able to stop obsessing over the uncertainty of it all.

He lifts his head out of his head and looks over at John, who’s grinning at him. Sherlock furrows his brows. “What are you so excited about?” he asks. “You were just griping a moment ago.”

John just keeps smiling. “I’m going to get to use my business cards tonight,” he says.

Sherlock gives him a questioning look, but doesn’t have time to ask another question before he hears footfalls on the staircase. He resists the urge to groan and slide to the floor; if he has to deal with another social engagement within the hour he might lock himself in the bedroom and refuse to leave for the rest of the week.

John turns and opens the door, letting Lestrade, of all people, into the sitting room.

Sherlock looks between them questioningly. “What are you doing here?” he asks, squinting at Lestrade.

“Merry Christmas,” Lestrade replies sardonically, rolling his eyes. “We’ve got a case.”

Sherlock bolts up from his seat. “You’ve refused to give me a case on Christmas for the past six years,” he says, pointing an accusing finger. “You’ve always said I need to do something else with myself for one day out of the year.”

“Well, you can thank your husband,” Lestrade says, nodding at John. “He convinced me that for you, this is festive. Newly classified serial killer, victim count at four as of last week. Very… _intricate_ murders. You interested?”

Sherlock is so stunned by John’s gift that he barely even hears the details of the case. He looks over at John, speechless.

“Merry Christmas,” John says, beaming. “This is your real gift.”

Sherlock’s grin is so wide he thinks his cheeks might be ripping open. “You stole my phone, got his number, and managed to persuade him to give me a case?”

“What could be a better gift than a serial killer?” John says. Then he frowns. “Actually, that sounded really bad, let’s pretend I didn’t say that.”

Sherlock practically _leaps_ across the sitting room to pull John into a kiss. He can feel John grinning against his lips, arms around his waist. Sherlock cups John’s cheeks, kissing him all over: his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw.

“I’ll just—erm,” Lestrade murmurs, awkwardly shuffling his feet. “Just… meet me at the Yard,” he says, showing himself out.

Sherlock keeps kissing all over John’s face while John giggles, trying to catch his lips in a proper kiss. He reaches up and holds Sherlock’s head still, kissing him thoroughly while Sherlock just about melts into him. He’s so overcome with gratitude and love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Never in his life did he expect to meet someone as willing and _understanding_ as John; he knows that Sherlock’s need for the work isn’t some sick fascination or groundless obsession. He wants to _help_ —he wants to be a part of it all, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to convey how much it means to him.

“Thank you,” he says, reverent, against John’s lips. “ _Thank_ you.”

John grins and brushes his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Well, if I’d known how much you were going to like this, I wouldn’t have bothered with the book,” he teases.

Sherlock pulls him into a tight hug. “I don’t—I don’t know how to explain—” he stammers.

“I know,” John promises. Sherlock can feel him drawing patterns into his back. “I know. And this is my ‘thank you’ for including me in something so important to you.”

Sherlock pulls back and smiles at him, eyes watering. He kisses John’s forehead before stepping to the side to grab their coats. He holds John’s out for him. “Do you have your gun?”

“Grabbed it earlier when I said I was going to the loo,” John says, reaching around to pat where it’s sat snugly in the waistband of his jeans.

“You’re amazing,” Sherlock laughs, kissing John’s cheek again while he tugs on his coat.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me amazing for getting them a serial killer case and carrying a gun,” John notes, helping Sherlock with his scarf.

“You’ve been dating the wrong people,” Sherlock jokes, pulling on his gloves.

“I think I have,” John agrees, smiling up at him.

Sherlock beams. He leans in, kissing John softly, sweetly, and takes John’s hand in his.

“Come on,” he murmurs, tugging John toward the stairs. “ _We’ve_ got a case.”

 John grins and stumbles after him, the both of them running down the stairs to catch a cab.

* * *

“ _Fuck_ ,” John whispers, pinning Sherlock to the wall and peering around the corner. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“I think we’ve got the message,” Sherlock hisses, trying to pull John back into the shadowy alley. “Don’t lean out into the light like that, he’ll see you!”

“I’m trying to see _him_ ,” John whispers, smacking Sherlock’s hands away. “Jesus, I can’t believe this happened.”

“I recall that just a few weeks ago I told you that I have a tendency to track down the murderer myself,” Sherlock mentions. “You should have seen this coming.”

John kicks him. “A little reminder would have been welcome. _Fuck_ ,” he says again, “Sherlock, he’s killed four people!”

“Well, let’s not bring the count up to six,” Sherlock says. He worms his way out from under John’s arm and tugs him back into the dark. He tries to ignore John’s frantic energy and thinks. The murderer isn’t spontaneous; he’s textbook serial killer, cool-down period and all. It’s likely Sherlock will be able to talk him down and give them a chance to get the police on scene, but not if John keeps pulling his gun every time he thinks he hears something.

He purses his lips and makes a decision. “Give me your gun,” he says, holding his hand out.

John stares at him, shell-shocked. “Are you kidding me?” he hisses. “I’m not giving you my gun!”

“You’re too keyed-up,” Sherlock says. “The minute you see him you’re going to threaten him and he’s going to defend himself. I can talk him down, but not if you’re going to shoot him if he so much as twitches.”

John presses his lips into a thin line, then huffs angrily and pulls his gun out. Sherlock snatches it and shoves it in his pocket. “If it even _remotely_ looks like things are going south, you’re handing it back to me immediately,” John says, pointing at him angrily.

“Alright, mum,” Sherlock murmurs, rolling his eyes. John smacks his arm and he grins.

“You like this too much for your own good,” John murmurs.

“So I’ve been told.” Sherlock leans around the corner and squints. There’s no sign of the murderer anywhere. Lestrade will kill him if he lets the bastard get away. “Come on,” he whispers, grabbing John’s hand.

They slink out from the dark, trying to hurry through the streetlight and stay quiet at the same time. Sherlock pulls up his mental map of the area; they’re somewhere in Clerkenwell and they’ve been following the murderer for nearly ten minutes. There was the construction site, and then the shops, so they should be rounding up on a chapel. He pulls John around another corner and tries to ignore the way John grips his hand like an iron vice. He isn’t sure anyone has ever put so much trust in him, and he—

Sherlock shakes the thoughts out of his head. Not the time, nor the place. Christ, this relationship might be the death of him. The worst part is that he isn’t sure he’d mind if it was.

They come up on the church and he sighs in relief. At least some part of his mind still works. “This way,” he says, absently trying to keep John in the loop.

“Are we breaking into a church?” John asks.

“Not sure yet,” Sherlock says, completely truthful. “Just going off the clear religious symbolism in his kills, it’s possible he’d seek solace here in the middle of a chase.”

“Or?”

“Or he’s fucking with us,” Sherlock mutters. They reach the front doors and he turns the handle, which gives way without a fight. He grins. “I don’t think he’s fucking with us.”

“Well, at least we’re leaving the ‘breaking’ out of our breaking and entering this time,” John sighs. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand once before letting go.

They step inside, wincing at the slight creak of the floorboards. Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John and jerks his head toward a slightly ajar door. John nods. They sneak over, pushing the door open slowly. The nave is empty and dusty from disuse. They walk down the aisle slowly. Some of the stained glass, faintly glowing in the moonlight, is chipped and fading. Come to think of it, Sherlock isn’t sure whether or not this church is regularly attended anymore. He puts a hand on John to still him.

“It’s Christmas,” he murmurs, looking back at John.

John furrows his brows. “Yes, and?”

“We’re in a _Catholic church_ ,” Sherlock hisses. “We’re in a Catholic church on Christmas and it’s completely abandoned.”

“Oh— _shit_ ,” John gasps, a look of realization dawning on him.

“He led us here,” Sherlock whispers, spinning around. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears. “He’s got to be here.”

“Shit, _shit_ ,” John says. “Give me back my gun.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re taking the fucking piss,” John whispers, grabbing at Sherlock’s arm impatiently. “There’s a proper serial killer somewhere in this church gearing up to kill us both and you think now is the best time to hold off on giving me my gun?”

“He’s a proper serial killer,” Sherlock echoes. “He has a cool-down period. He won’t just kill us outright.”

“Unless he feels threatened,” John counters, “which he might, because—oh, I don’t know, _we’re hunting him down to turn him in to the police._ ”

“Trust me,” Sherlock insists. He gazes down at John with pleading eyes.

John glares at him, though the look has nearly no malice. “Lestrade was right,” he mutters. “No more cases on bloody Christmas.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Sherlock says. He ignores John’s exaggerated eye-roll and scans the rest of the nave. It’s barely illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the stained glass. The disturbed dust is settling again. Sherlock gestures for John to follow him and starts looking down each row of pews. They reach the altar with no success. The church is empty.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock murmurs. “He should be here.”

“Maybe it was a diversion?” John suggests.

Sherlock frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says. He walks up into the sanctuary. “He’s straightforward—blunt, even. He leaves his victims in plain sight, he wouldn’t—”

He cuts off when he catches sight of a stain on the floor.

John tilts his head. “Sher?”

“Quiet,” Sherlock murmurs. He crouches down, pulling his magnifier out of his pocket. He doesn’t need it. The faded red stain on the hardwood floor is nearly seven feet long, by the looks of it.

“Oh, god,” John mutters. “That’s—”

“This is where he kills them,” Sherlock says. He stands. “He has to be here. This wasn’t accidental, nor a diversion.”

“There’s a door,” John notices. He points toward the back of the sanctuary. “It must lead into the sacristy.”

“The what?” Sherlock asks, frowning at him.

“You know, where the priests dress and get ready for their sermons,” John explains. “I’m surprised you don’t know that. Isn’t religion a pretty common motivator in murderers?”

“Well, until today I haven’t had to track someone into an actual church,” Sherlock mutters, more focused on the fact that John clearly has a religious background than his own lacking knowledge of church structures. “Sort of shocking, actually. Come on.” He starts off toward the door, but John grabs his arm to stop him.

“If he’s waiting in there, he’s probably going to drug you,” John says. “I’m not arguing this. Give me my gun.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. If he gives the gun back, he’s risking the killer taking impulsive action under threat. If he doesn’t, he’s risking their lives exponentially more _and_ the possibility of John leaving him because he’s an arse. He huffs and reaches into his pocket, handing the gun back to John. “Don’t pull it unless my negotiation strategies are failing,” he warns.

“Right, so pull it after a minute,” John teases.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve been doing this longer than you, you know,” he says. “I do actually have half a clue how to deal with these people.”

John half-smiles. “Alright. Show off, then. Go ahead. Just don’t get us killed, huh?”

“Deal,” Sherlock says.

He leads them to the door, which opens into a hallway. There are two more doors in there, one to the side and one at the end of the hall.

“Which one’s the sacristy?” Sherlock asks.

“What, am I supposed to know?”

“You’re the one with a religious father.”

“We’ll talk about how you figured that one out later,” John mutters. Sherlock catches the fondness in his tone and smiles. “End of the hall? There might be a door in there that leads back out into the sanctuary.”

“End of the hall it is,” Sherlock agrees. They creep down to the door. Sherlock puts his hand on the doorknob and looks over his shoulder at John. _No gun_ , he mouths.

John glares daggers into him, but takes his hand off the gun sitting in his waistband. Sherlock turns the knob softly, pushing the door open without stepping inside. The killer is sat in the back of the room, staring at them, blank-faced.

“Hello,” Sherlock says.

He looks up at them and raises his brows.

Sherlock looks him up and down. He looks resigned. No thrill in the chase, no excitement for the kill.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, confused. John smacks his arm. Sherlock glares at him. “Look at him,” he says, gesturing at the killer. “He’s… _bleak_. That isn’t the face of a serial killer.”

“I’m not a serial killer,” the murderer says. “It just… worked out that way. I heard you talking out there. I appreciate the trust, by the way,” he adds, nodding at Sherlock. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“See?” Sherlock says, looking pleased.

“Don’t take that the wrong way,” the murderer interrupts. “I have to kill you, but I don’t want to.”

“ _See?_ ” John hisses mockingly.

“It’s been a slow downward spiral,” the murderer continues. “I’m a vicar. The first one was an accident. And then someone found out and threatened to go to the bishop.”

“Are you actually monologuing to us?” Sherlock laughs.

John elbows him hard. “Sherlock,” he warns.

“It’s a bit ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs. “He’s not a criminal mastermind, he’s an idiot.”

He looks around the room, searching for hidden cameras or Lestrade waiting to pop out and inform him that this was a joke. The case isn’t nearly as exciting as he’d anticipated: a religious nutter, not a psychopath, protecting himself after, what, dropping a giant cross on someone? He doesn’t blame John, of course, he couldn’t have known what it would turn out to be. Still, it’s disappointing. He’ll need to apprehend the killer and call Lestrade. If he’s lucky, they can get out of this with only a few cuts and bruises.

“Shut up,” the murderer hisses. “You’re the only ones who will understand why I did this.”

“And then, what, you’re going to kill us, too?” John asks.

“I don’t have a choice,” the murderer says. He rubs his forehead. “You’ll tell the police. They’ll take me into custody and the church will find out. My promise to God will be broken.”

“Oh, you’ve cut a deal, have you?” Sherlock asks, rolling his eyes. “Kill all witnesses and thou shalt be granted forgiveness?”

“Shut up!” the murderer shouts, bolting up from his chair. “You don’t know what this is _doing_ to me! To my faith! To believe that God has put before me a challenge I can barely complete—”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffs. “This is self-preservation, not a prophetic mission.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t the time to express your atheism,” John warns, grabbing his arm.

“You can’t possibly know what God has entrusted me with,” the murderer says.

“Every killer has their own beliefs as to why they need to do what they do,” Sherlock says. “It doesn’t excuse the behaviour. You’ve killed four people. Your ‘God’ will never forgive that, no matter what you believe he’s told you in frantic, adrenaline-fueled hallucinations. You’ve taken lives, and there is _no_ forgiveness in that.”

“ _Shut up!”_ the murderer roars, pulling a gun on them.

John steps in front of Sherlock, pulling his own gun and pointing it, steadily, at the murderer. “Try it,” he whispers.

“Adding two more deaths to your toll isn’t going to solve your religious conflicts,” Sherlock says softly. “Absolving yourself of responsibility by declaring it was God’s will is only going to cause more trouble. If you accept your culpability you can take the consequences as punishment and in time you’ll be exonerated.”

The murderer’s hand shakes. “That isn’t what God wants.”

“When did he tell you what he wanted?” Sherlock asks. “In the middle of the first kill? When you were panicked, paranoid?”

“Yes,” the murderer chokes out.

“It was in your head,” Sherlock says. The murderer grips the gun tighter. “You still have every right to believe that God wants you to do well by him, but this isn’t what he wants.”

The murderer breathes heavily. He lets his arm fall to his side and he drops back into his chair. Sherlock hears the faint ring of sirens somewhere outside. He needs to get the weapon away from the murderer before the police burst in.

“Did you text Lestrade?” he whispers in John’s ear.

John shifts uncomfortably. “In the hallway,” he admits.

“You _idiot_ ,” Sherlock hisses. “Lower your gun.”

He steps around his husband and walks toward the murderer, hands raised defensively. “There’s time to fix things,” Sherlock tells him. He reaches for the gun slowly. The murderer goes to hand it over. “Anything can be fixed.”

The sirens grow louder and the murderer’s eyes widen. “You called the police,” he whispers, pulling the gun back.

“They can help you,” Sherlock insists.

“Sherlock, get back,” John hisses.

“Get away from me,” the murderer says. He points the gun at Sherlock and Sherlock stands, backing away. “Get away from me!”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, hands raised again.

“O loving and kind God, have mercy,” the murderer whispers, “have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my transgressions.”

“Don’t—don’t do that,” John mutters, stepping forward and pointing his gun at the murderer’s head.

“Let me be pure again, for I admit my shameful deed; it haunts me day and night,” he continues. “It is against you and you alone I sinned and did this terrible thing.”

The sacristy door slams open and the murderer fires. John cries out and hits the floor.

The world stops.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispers, eyes watering.

“Drop the weapon!” Lestrade shouts. He and his unit rush the murderer and Sherlock drops to his knees, pulling John to the side.

He’s bleeding from his head, primarily his temple; Sherlock pushes his hair aside gently but he can’t find an entry wound. It’s a graze, but he must have hit his head when he fell, because he’s out cold.

Sherlock whimpers, rubbing tears off his cheek with his blood-slicked hand. He rips off his scarf, pressing it against the wound on John’s temple.

“Please, wake _up_ ,” he whispers. He gently smacks John’s cheek a few times and John’s head lolls to the side, completely limp. Sherlock chokes on a sob. “ _Please_.”

“Create in me a new, clean heart, O God, filled with clean thoughts and right desires,” the murderer breathes, his tone reverential as the police cuff him.

“If you’d shot one centimeter to the left, you could have killed him,” Sherlock spits, looking up as the police drag the murderer out of the room, “and I would have killed you.”

Lestrade crouches down beside them. “The paramedics are headed in.”

“It’s just a surface wound,” Sherlock explains, sniffling. “Bullet graze. He’ll need stitches and he most likely has a concussion from hitting his head. Head wounds bleed the most, so he might need a transfusion.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Lestrade asks.

“He’ll be okay.” Sherlock wipes his face again, completely aware of how ineffective his bloody hand is at drying the tears on his cheeks.

Lestrade nods and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll go show them the way,” he says.

He leaves them alone and Sherlock lets his eyes fill up again. He was an idiot. He got too absorbed and forgot the risk to John. He’s never had to worry about anyone else on his cases and he’s never been concerned for his own goodwill. How can he expect John to stay with him after _this_?

John grunts softly and Sherlock’s eyes widen. His breath catches in his chest.

“Sher?” John murmurs. He goes to sit up and Sherlock puts a hand on his chest, gently holding him down.

“Don’t sit up,” Sherlock chokes out. “You were shot.”

John’s hand comes up to his head and he groans. “That doesn’t feel like I was shot,” he says. His voice is shaky.

“Grazed,” Sherlock corrects.

“I hit my head?”

“Good deduction,” Sherlock teases.

John giggles weakly. “I have a good plan for the next case,” he says.

 _The next case_. Sherlock’s chest fills up with hope so quickly he feels like he might pass out. “Don’t text Lestrade?” he suggests, trying not to sound so emotional.

“How ‘bout, don’t provoke the nutter who thinks he hears God?”

Sherlock laughs. “We’ll negotiate it later,” he says. He brushes his thumb over John’s cheek. “Please don’t get shot again.”

“I’ll try my best,” John promises.

Sherlock nods. His lips tremble. “I love you,” he whispers.

John smiles. “We need to work on your timing,” he murmurs. He takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes gently. “But I love you, too.”

Sherlock grins and starts crying again. He leans down and kisses John, ignoring the metallic taste of blood on their lips.

The paramedics run in with a gurney and Sherlock pulls back, still holding John’s hand.

“What happened?” one of them asks. He crouches down and checks John’s vitals while the others lower the gurney.

“I was shot at,” John answers gruffly. “Graze on my right temple. Probable concussion.”

The paramedic pulls out a penlight and shines it in John’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Doctor John Watson,” he answers.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Bloody Clerkenwell,” John huffs. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand while they lift him onto the gurney, but takes it back immediately after.

“Who is this?” the paramedic asks, glancing at Sherlock.

“My husband, Sherlock Holmes,” John answers.

“I’ll be riding to the hospital with him,” Sherlock says, finding his voice again.

The paramedic grimaces. “Our company doesn’t typically allow—”

“Make an exception.”

The paramedic concedes unwillingly. “Bit pushy,” he mutters, raising his brows at John.

Sherlock blushes brightly, but John just smiles. “I know,” he says. “I love him anyway.”


	11. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over a month into marriage, John and Sherlock are just a day away from the end of this social experiment. The couple must now decide whether or not they will remain married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hugs and cuddles to my wonderful beta readers for this chapter, emrys [euterpeschild](http://euterpeschild.tumblr.com/) and bee [discosherlock](http://discosherlock.tumblr.com/) ! you guys are the bomb diggity and i lub u

John grimaces while he peels back the dressing on his temple, watching the way his skin lifts and blanches as the medical tape pulls on it. He’s going to look ridiculous with a strip of his hair missing for however long it takes to grow back; the notion is almost enough to tempt him into going back to a buzz cut, but he likes the way his hair has grown in now.

Rather, he likes the way _Sherlock_ likes his hair. He mentioned it a few weeks ago in bed. John had woken up to Sherlock watching him sleep, which happens more often than it probably should. In lieu of saying “good morning,” Sherlock had said that he liked the way John’s hair sticks up in one giant cowlick when he sleeps for more than six hours at a time, and then he got quieter and said he liked John’s hair in general.

John smiles remembering it. He’s not sure how Sherlock will feel about this new, eclectic, and involuntary style, but he’s sure the conversation will be interesting.

He dabs a wet paper towel around the eight stitches in his head; he’ll be able to get them out in just a few days, which is a relief. It feels like every time Sherlock looks at him he remembers what John looked like: covered in blood and swollen from his temple all the way over to his eye. The sooner they come out, the sooner he and Sherlock can go back to normal.

Well, “normal.” After all, the experiment ends tomorrow.

They have to meet with Doctors Stamford and Dimmock in the morning to decide whether or not they’re going to stay married and John is going mad thinking about it. He knows he shouldn’t be so worried; they said The Three Words. It’s all out there now. And yet, since Boxing Day—during which they split their time between the hospital and Scotland Yard—things have been uncomfortable. Sherlock has hardly talked to him for the past few days, and it’s not like him to be so quiet after a case.

It’s enough to make John wonder if what Sherlock said in the church was circumstantial. They need to talk about it before tomorrow; it would be a nasty surprise to find out they’re getting divorced without being a part of the decision.

He tosses the gauze and paper towels in the bin and nods decisively at himself in the mirror. _No better time than the present_.

Violin music has been drifting through the flat for the past fifteen minutes or so and he follows it to Sherlock, serenading the city from the sitting room windows. John smiles at the sight; Sherlock’s tall, slim silhouette framed by the soft evening sunlight. He waits for a pause in the music—a piece he recognises very well—to speak up.

He smiles. “Is that our wedding waltz?” he asks.

Sherlock tilts his head, still looking out the window. “Good ear,” he says, lowering his bow. “Surprising, since you only heard it once.”

“I don’t think I could forget that,” John says fondly.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “No?” He looks sad, and John’s heart rate spikes anxiously.

“It was a bit important,” John says, trying not to look like someone who believes he’s about to be dumped. Sherlock looks back at the window. He fails to keep up his facade. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He can see Sherlock’s shoulders tense from across the room. “It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, contradicting himself.

John sighs heavily. They need to get this conversation out of the way; they’re running out of time to have it. He crosses the room slowly and stands a few feet behind Sherlock. “You can talk to me,” he says softly. “You _should_ talk to me.”

Sherlock turns to the desk, flipping open his violin case and placing the instrument inside gingerly. “It doesn’t matter,” he insists, “I’m being ridiculous.”

“It _does_ matter,” John maintains. He swallows hard. “Sherlock, if… if you need to tell me something—”

“Like _what?”_ Sherlock snaps. He finally looks at John, his gaze sharp and cold. “Clearly you already have something in mind.”

“Did you mean what you said?” John asks. His voice is so quiet he’s afraid Sherlock didn’t hear him, so he repeats it. “Did you mean what you said? At the church?”

There’s no doubt about what he’s talking about, and Sherlock clearly understands; his expression turns soft and broken. “Of course I did,” he whispers, hurt. “Why wouldn’t I?”

John rubs the back of his neck anxiously. “After we got back home and you started acting distant, I—I thought maybe you just said, you know, you loved me because you were… _scared_ , or something.”

“Is that why you said it?” Sherlock asks, looking fearful.

“No!” John promises. “No, I meant it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, nodding shallowly. “That’s that, then,” he says, turning back to the windows.

“No, that’s _not_ that,” John huffs. “Sherlock, it’s… we only have one day left.” He swallows hard. “If you have something to say, you should say it.”

Sherlock keeps staring out the window. “It’s funny, I thought I’d be the one saying that,” he murmurs after a moment.

John furrows his brow. “Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. They stand there, silent, for nearly a minute.

“Sherlock?” John whispers.

“Do you blame me for what happened?” Sherlock asks, voice barely audible. He turns back around slowly, eyes on the floor. “For chasing him down, for getting you hurt. Do you blame me?”  

John stares at him, shocked. He hadn’t even _thought_ about it. He was so preoccupied with worrying that Sherlock had changed his mind about his feelings that it didn’t occur to him Sherlock might be hyperfocusing on something else entirely.

“Is that what this is about?” John asks. “Why would I blame you?”

“It’s my fault,” Sherlock whispers. “I was arrogant. I got you a concussion, I got you _shot_. I didn’t think about anyone but myself, I’m not used to—”

“Sherlock, it’s _okay_ ,” John interrupts. Sherlock looks up at him with tears in his eyes, and it’s possibly the saddest thing John has ever seen. He _hates_ how much Sherlock looks down on himself. He steps forward and puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t even _think_ about blaming you.”

“You didn’t?” Sherlock whispers, cheeks reddening.

“Of _course_ not,” John says, chuckling. “Greg told me when I asked him for the case that it was dangerous. For god’s sake, the day after we moved in together you took me on a date to break and enter.” He smiles, squeezing Sherlock’s arm. “Love, you didn’t hurt me. It was just collateral damage. It’s okay.”

Sherlock hesitates. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“Would you feel better if I said I forgive you anyway?” John asks.

Sherlock nods, glancing up through his eyelashes.

John grins and steps in closer. “I forgive you,” he promises. He kisses Sherlock on the cheek tenderly. “But I stand by the fact that there’s nothing to forgive.”

Sherlock gingerly places his hand on John’s cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs, finally starting to smile.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck and gets up on tip-toe to kiss him once, sweetly. He goes to lower himself back down but Sherlock holds him around the waist to kiss him again. John hums against his lips. Things are looking good for the outcome of their decision tomorrow, but he knows he can’t just assume anything. It wouldn’t be fair to Sherlock and it wouldn’t be fair to himself.

“There’s something else we need to talk about,” he says, nosing Sherlock’s jaw.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sherlock murmurs, holding him even closer.

“Sher—”

“Can I _please_ have the rest of today?” Sherlock whispers.

John squirms back to frown up at him in confusion. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Sherlock’s eyes are glittering again. “I want one more day of this,” he says. His voice is thick with tears. “I want to pretend that everything is normal and nothing is going to change tomorrow.”

John’s expression softens immediately. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, putting a hand on his cheek, “it doesn’t have to change.”

“It will,” Sherlock whispers. “Even if you stay, it’ll be different. There won’t be the obligation of the experiment to keep you here. You’ll grow tired of me and my impulses and misbehaviour.”

“Of course I won’t,” John says, shaking his head.

“You say that now,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Listen to me,” John insists. He puts both hands on Sherlock’s face gingerly and holds him there, staring John in the eyes, where he can’t run away. “This has never been about the experiment,” he says. “In the beginning, sure, we needed them to bring us together, but after that it was all _us_.” He smiles, brushing a stray tear off Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, I think you’re a massive dickhead with no regard for your own safety and far too much of a penchant for dead bodies, but I love everything about that. I love everything about _you_.”

He can feel himself tearing up, now, and he would feel ridiculous if this wasn’t so important. “All your quirks, your interests, your habits. The fact that you break the law in order to preserve it and care _so much_ about others.”

“I do _not_ ,” Sherlock scoffs, unable to keep himself from smiling.

“Shut up,” John murmurs, beaming. He lets his hands drop to Sherlock’s shoulders and tilts his head. “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, nodding.

“Alright,” John says. “Then you have to trust that no matter what happens after tomorrow, my feelings for you aren’t going to change. I love you, you idiot.”

Sherlock smiles. “I love you, too,” he whispers.

All John’s trepidation from the week melts away and it feels like a weight—more like a hundred weights, really—has been taken off his shoulders. He doesn’t have to worry anymore. He doesn’t have to fear losing any of this: Sherlock, or the odd, beautiful life they’ve built over the past month and a half. Sherlock was even more worried than him and he feels awful for not having talked about it earlier. He should have just put it out there after the case on Christmas, but having a concussion really doesn’t lend to important emotional conversations.

He grins and takes Sherlock’s face in his hands again. He kisses him and Sherlock wraps his arms around John, pressing them together from chest to hips. Even if John wanted to pull away, he isn’t sure he’d be able to; Sherlock is clinging to him like his life depends on it. His hands slide around to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and his fingers tangle their way into Sherlock’s stupidly prim curls.

He feels Sherlock’s hands slink down to his arse and he nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise.

“Sher,” John murmurs, breaking away, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Sherlock insists, sneaking a few fingers into the waistband of John’s jeans. He brushes his lips over the shell of John’s ear. “Do you want me to?”

John shivers, nodding shallowly. “If you’re comfortable,” he says.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock murmurs.

He goes to catch John’s lips again but John puts a hand on his chest to stop him. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he says, unremitting. He forces Sherlock to meet his gaze, and he looks confident. John can’t see an ounce of anxiety on his face, but he doesn’t want to take the risk. “You don’t have to do this just because the experiment is ending tomorrow,” he says.

Sherlock smiles, eyes crinkling in that ridiculously endearing way John loves. “I’m not,” he promises. He dips his head down and kisses the corner of John’s lips and John relaxes into his touch. “I’m doing it because I _want_ to. I’ve wanted to for _weeks_ and we still haven’t.”

“I think I remember a reason for that,” John teases, curling his fingers into Sherlock’s lapel. He smiles remembering their awkward snog-session on the couch and tries not to get too far ahead of himself. Just because Sherlock _wants_ to have sex doesn’t mean it won’t still be overwhelming for him. Making him anxious and regretful could make their decision tomorrow take a bad turn.  

Sherlock smiles at the quip and huffs indignantly. “That was just the first time,” he mutters.

“Of course,” John agrees. His hand drifts down and undoes the buttons of Sherlock’s jacket. Sherlock watches raptly, lips parted. “The other times were my fault.”

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion. John untangles himself from Sherlock’s arms and pulls Sherlock’s jacket off, tossing it onto the couch. He smoothes his hands down Sherlock’s arms and holds them by the elbows. Sherlock gets the idea and his hands settle in the small of John’s back.

“I got nervous I was pushing you too much and tried to keep things from going too far,” John admits apologetically. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist, looking down and blushing. “Even after you told me you _wanted_ them to go that far.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers.

John looks at Sherlock and scrunches up his face. “What for, exactly?”

“For caring about me,” Sherlock says sweetly.

John grins even as Sherlock leans in to kiss him. The two of them press their smiles together in a ridiculous mess of lips and teeth and John giggles into Sherlock’s mouth giddily. At this point in his life, John can’t imagine not caring about Sherlock—he can’t believe he ever _didn’t_ have Sherlock to care about.

John parts his lips when Sherlock’s tongue grazes them, silently asking permission which John happily grants. He traces little circles into the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock pulls him even closer, practically crushing them together, and sighs happily.

John takes a chance and rolls his hips up into Sherlock’s experimentally. Sherlock responds in kind, a little less smooth but definitely there. The hair on the back of John’s neck stands up and he moans softly, repeating the motion.

Sherlock breaks away, breathing heavily already. “Can we—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” John interrupts. He grabs Sherlock’s hand and turns, pulling him toward the kitchen. Sherlock trips forward and gets his arms around John again, waddling behind him and kissing his neck all the way to the bedroom door. It takes everything in John not to laugh when Sherlock’s hair tickles his ears.

He worms around in Sherlock’s arms and kisses him, leading them backward until he can drop onto the mattress. Sherlock climbs into his lap, planting his knees on either side of John’s thighs. John grinds up against him and Sherlock gasps. He drops into John’s lap completely and circles his hips.

John groans, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. They’re still fully clothed and it’s already better than he imagined, which is shocking considering he’s been imagining it since the minute they met. He’s had plenty of time to build up his expectations, but just being with Sherlock—the _notion_ , even, of being with Sherlock—is completely overwhelming.

His hands come up and he undoes the first button of Sherlock’s shirt, pushing the fabric to the side and kissing his collarbone tenderly. Sherlock’s fingers card through his hair encouragingly, so John continues undoing Sherlock’s shirt, kissing his chest as it’s exposed. Sherlock whimpers when John’s lip brushes his nipple and John can’t suppress his pleased grin. They probably aren’t going to last longer than a few minutes, but he’ll try to remember to come back to this later.

He gets Sherlock’s shirt off and tosses it onto the floor carelessly. He leans back on his elbows and takes in the sight of Sherlock’s pale chest, pinkened by the blush covering him from cheeks to stomach. His lips are kiss-swollen and red and his hair is sticking up every which way thanks to a dual performance by his mousse and John’s hands.

John feels like he’s drunk; indulgent, euphoric, _in love_. He grins, letting his head fall to the side. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathes.

Sherlock’s blush darkens and he smiles shyly. “Not fair,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” John wonders.

“Not fair,” Sherlock repeats, eyes twinkling. “You’re still wearing your jumper.”

John flops on his back and reaches his arms over his head playfully. “I did my part,” he teases. “I’m not going to do _all_ the work. It’s your turn.”

Sherlock laughs and leans over, nuzzling John’s neck while his hands creep up his jumper. His fingers are cold and John shivers, arching into his touch. Sherlock hikes the jumper up, hands ghosting over every inch of John’s chest almost frantically, completely incongruent to the soft, gentle kisses he’s placing all over John’s neck. He tugs up on the jumper, sitting back and urging John up with him so he can pull it off. He pushes John back onto the mattress and stares, enraptured, at his shoulder.

John is shocked to find that he doesn’t care. He watches the way Sherlock’s eyes jump back and forth, the bridge of his nose wrinkled as it always is when he’s taking in every detail of something. He looked the same way at the altar, and John can’t help but smile thinking about how far they’ve come in the last month and a half. He doesn’t think about Afghanistan, his invalidation—everything before their wedding is a grey, fuzzy, half-memory that he doesn’t care about anymore.

This—this is what he cares about. The way Sherlock’s fingers hover just above the angry knot of scar tissue like he needs an invitation to touch; the gentle, wondering look on his face; the barely-there part of his lips that John wants to kiss for hours on end.

“You can touch,” he says, entirely nonchalant. He nods encouragingly at Sherlock’s hesitant expression. “It doesn’t hurt much anymore. The cold is getting to me, a bit, but it’s—it’s fine,” he finishes, smiling.

Sherlock’s fingers barely graze the scar, so light that John can’t even feel the touch because of the dulled nerves in the tissue. Sherlock splays his hand over it delicately and smiles. “I’ve never loved someone before,” he whispers, “but I can’t imagine loving anyone but you.”

John tears up, blushing brightly. “Come here,” he murmurs, reaching up to pull Sherlock down on the mattress beside him. He rolls over on top of Sherlock, holding himself up on his forearms, and kisses Sherlock reverently. “I’ve never loved someone as much as I love you, and I never want to,” John whispers. He grins so widely he thinks his face might tear in half and he couldn’t care any less.

Sherlock laughs, wiping a tear off John’s cheek. “I love you,” he whispers again.

“I love you,” John echoes. He dips his head down to kiss the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock tips his head back and giggles ecstatically. John laughs into his neck. “I think that’s my new favourite sound,” he says, lifting his head back up to smile at Sherlock like a lovesick idiot.

“Sap,” Sherlock murmurs, grinning just as widely.

“Of course I am. I love you,” John whispers again, feeling like the floodgates have opened and he can’t stop himself from saying it over and over again.

Sherlock smiles at him so adoringly that John assumes he feels pretty much the same way. “I love you,” Sherlock repeats.

He tips his chin up and catches John’s lips in a kiss, arms hooking around John’s shoulders lazily. John happily sighs and lowers some of his weight onto Sherlock, who moans pleasantly in response. His knees come up to cage John’s hips and John remembers that they both have far too many layers on.

John shifts his weight onto one arm and slides his hand down Sherlock’s side, teasing his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and tugging lightly. “Can I?” he asks, kissing Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.

John pulls back to sneak a quick look, making sure Sherlock isn’t masking any anxiety or hesitation. He looks sure, steadfast, and now playfully irritated with his eyes half-open, scowling at John.

“I said _yes_ ,” he pouts.

John grins. “Just making sure,” he promises. He leans back in and kisses Sherlock, undoing his fly. He sucks on Sherlock’s lower lip and slides his hand into Sherlock’s trousers, cupping his cock through his pants.

Sherlock gasps, breaking the kiss.

John stops immediately. “Are you okay?” he asks, starting to lift himself off Sherlock.

“Oh my god, don’t _stop_ ,” Sherlock whines, arching up into him.

John laughs, worries flitting away. “Sorry,” he whispers, smiling. “Reflex.”

He settles down again, returning his hand to the front of Sherlock’s briefs. He rubs the heel of his hand against Sherlock’s cock through the material. Sherlock shoves the back of his hand against his mouth and groans. John grins against Sherlock’s neck. He’s been imagining this for weeks. _Dreaming_ about it. He has mastered the art of sneaking away to wank in the loo and going back to bed before Sherlock notices, but he won’t have to utilise that craft any longer. He’ll be able to kiss Sherlock awake in the early morning and take him apart as slowly as he pleases. Snogging on the couch doesn’t have to end with awkward smiles and apologies.

John kisses his way up Sherlock’s neck while he pushes his pants down over his thighs; he drags his hand back up, ghosting his fingers over Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock whimpers and blushes bright red. It seems like a good enough sign; John finds his way back to Sherlock’s lips at the same time his fingers wrap around Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock moans into his mouth.

“Oh, my _god_ ,” he breathes, hips stuttering up into John’s hand. John strokes him and he whimpers again, biting down on his lip.

John smiles and tips his head to kiss just below Sherlock’s ear. “You don’t have to be quiet,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Unless you want to. I want you to be yourself.”

Sherlock lets out a soft moan at that, squirming underneath him. “ _John_ ,” he whines. His hand worms down between them and fumbles with John’s fly. “Can I touch you?” he breathes.

The rest of the blood in John’s body rushes straight to his groin and he feels lightheaded. “ _God,_ yeah,” John groans, nearly begging.

Sherlock’s fingers shake but he manages to get John’s jeans undone, ineffectively attempting to push them down with one hand. “I can’t—this is a stupid angle,” he huffs, tugging on John’s waistband uselessly.

“Hang on,” John laughs, sitting up and taking his hand off Sherlock’s cock, which earns him an annoyed whine. He wriggles out of his jeans and pants and pulls Sherlock’s bottoms the rest of the way off as well, shoving them all off the bed. He crawls back over Sherlock, brushing kisses over his stomach and chest on his way up. “I should have guessed you’d be this useless when you’re turned on,” he teases.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock laughs breathily. He reaches down and wraps a hand around John tentatively. John drops his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder and moans. Sherlock’s grasp is featherlight, barely a touch, but even that little pressure makes John’s head spin. Sherlock seems to take John’s enthusiastic sounds as encouragement and tightens his grip slightly, giving a few experimental strokes.

It occurs to John, not for the first time, that Sherlock has never done this before. And, comfortable though he is with his sexuality, John couldn’t call himself an expert in this field. He hasn’t been with another man like this since James Sholto, over a year ago. This is so different, though. He has a connection with Sherlock that he’s never felt before—that he’s sure he’ll never feel with anyone else. It feels natural to him, and it must feel close to the same for Sherlock, who has no shame in asking John to touch him again.

John slots himself between Sherlock’s legs and rolls his hips, rubbing their erections together. Sherlock’s breath catches and he gets the idea. He wraps his legs around John’s hips, his arms around John’s neck, and digs his heels into the small of John’s back. They rock their hips together and John sucks a bruise into the sensitive skin over Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock coaxes him up into a kiss, one that only lasts a few moments before he hides his face in John’s neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” John whispers, kissing Sherlock’s temple. “Everything about you.”

“You—you’re beautiful,” Sherlock echoes, voice muffled. “I’m so lucky, I don’t—I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything I can give you,” John says. Sherlock grips his shoulders and laugh-cries against his skin. “I want to give you everything.”

“J— _John_ ,” Sherlock gasps, “I’m— I—”

“I’ve got you,” John promises, kissing the shell of his ear. “I’ve got you, love.”

Sherlock cries out, clinging to John as he comes. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the crook of John’s neck and shakes, panting softly. It takes just a few more thrusts for John to follow, whispering Sherlock’s name the whole time.

He falls to the side and pulls Sherlock flush against him, kissing his forehead, his ridiculous cheekbones, his outrageous cupid’s bow. A little part of him is disappointed he didn’t get to see Sherlock’s face when he came, but now he knows he has so much more time for that. He leans back and brushes back Sherlock’s sweat-damp fringe. His cheeks are bright red and his eyes are squeezed shut, tears suspended in his eyelashes. John kisses them each and strokes Sherlock’s hair, just holding him through the aftershocks. Sherlock lets out a trembling sigh, curling closer still to John.

“You okay?” John whispers, face pressed into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock nods shallowly. “I’m—I’ve never—” he stammers, voice shaking, “I’ve never felt so— _much_.”

John can feel Sherlock’s tears falling onto his neck and he smiles, his own eyes starting to water. “It can be pretty overwhelming,” he agrees. He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls again.

“I’m glad it was with you,” Sherlock whispers. He pulls back to look John in the eyes. “I only ever want it to be with you,” he adds, voice reverent.

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m _yours_ ,” he promises, letting his tears overflow.

Sherlock’s eyes glisten and he rests his hand on top of John’s. He exhales, soft and shaky. “John Watson,” he breathes, smiling, “will you stay married to me?”

John beams and laughs, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Yes,” he whispers, overjoyed. He kisses Sherlock sweetly, over and over again. “ _Yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe it's (almost) done! i give my endless thanks to alyssa [lin-aham-miranda](http://lin-aham-miranda.tumblr.com/) for commissioning this wonderful concept. i loved writing it so much, and i'm glad i finished it before a full year had passed jdjffg
> 
> keep your eyes peeled for a (hopefully) soon-to-come epilogue!


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